


Yeah, I'm a Back Door Man

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Coming Untouched, Emasculation, Established Relationship, Light Masochism, M/M, Mutilation, Past Torture, Praise Kink, Rimming, Self-Hatred, Switching, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15585750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: Season 6. Dean's never had an issue with sacrificing something in order to make his brother happy.Wantingit, now that's the problem.





	Yeah, I'm a Back Door Man

Once, when Dean was thirteen years old, Sam had asked him to steal him a street sign. 1992 in a small town in Montana, just on the cusp of winter, which meant all of them risked freezing their balls off every time they stepped outside and faint crusts of greyish ice had started to cling to any and everything. It didn’t really get wet enough to snow while they were there, just cold enough to, and he and his brother had spent the majority of the time quiet and grumpy and wrapped up in old comforters with the motel heater running full blast. Well, _Dean_ had anyway. Sam spent most of the time blabbing to his stupid, invisible imaginary friend and driving him up the friggin’ wall.

Their Dad had popped a few counties over on a milk-run hunt, only a weekend’s worth of work, while Dean was relegated to the motel room right along with Sam due to having pissed off the local P.D. a couple days earlier. Some squat, small town cop with a rage-boner for strangers who had made it his personal mission to make Dean’s life hell after he’d snarked a little too loudly at the guy’s demeanor while he was in earshot. He’d been sitting at the counter of the local diner, shoving donut after donut in his face with his mirrored Cool Hand Luke sunglasses still on at 5:45pm on an overcast day. The dude probably couldn’t even see the jelly-filled in front of him with the embarrassing way he was pretending to be important, and Dean hadn’t even bothered biting back a condescending laugh as he elbowed Sam in the ribs and told some shitty joke just loud enough for the douche to catch. He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, hilarious though it must have been. All he can remember, stark-clear in his mind’s eye, is the way his dad had looked at him after. Strict and disappointed, jaw tight with the promise of consequences.

 _Don’t goad cops._ It was one of the cardinal rules they were supposed to follow. Right under _Don’t trust strangers_ and _Never answer the door without a gun in your other hand_. It made sense. You didn’t want anyone looking too closely at their finances or identification, and police were just one step removed from Social Services, but self-aggrandizing dickweeds like that have always rubbed Dean the wrong way. Even more so when he was a teenager. He could rarely help himself back then.

His punishment had come swift and non-negotiable. A temporary ban from hunting, stuck babysitting while his Dad was off helping people and stopping monsters, even though Sam was pretty much old enough now to look out for himself. Dean had found the entire thing half infuriating and half relieving in turns, but it kept leaning toward infuriating the more Sam would pretend to have inane conversations with…Sal? Sullivan? Whatever his fake friend’s dumb name was supposed to be. Dean had not-so-patiently suffered through it for an entire day and a half, flicking through the spotty channels the _Big Sky Motel_ had to offer, while trying his damnedest not to pay too much attention to his surroundings—chiefly, a claustrophobic, toffee-brown affront to taste with floor-to-ceiling wood paneling on all four walls and rainbow bright bedspreads eating up the majority of the tiny room.

But sometime late afternoon that Sunday, Sam had abruptly stopped the bickering he’d been having with himself in one small corner of the room, turned around to fix Dean with big, sad, trusting eyes, and asked him—in no uncertain terms—to steal him a street sign. It was the weirdest goddamn thing and Dean had no earthly idea what Sam would even _want_ with something like that, but his brother had been adamant. Noticeably upset and tripping over all his words as he’d tried to explain. Something about his imaginary friend saying Dean wouldn’t, and Sam saying that he _would_ because Dean was so brave, and his imaginary friend had apparently called him a “wuss”, and Dean was up off the bed before the insult was even fully out of his little brother’s mouth.

John had been fucking _pissed_ when he’d stumbled back Monday morning, left side of his face all scratched to shit, to find Dean sitting in the county holding cell for vandalism and resisting arrest. But it had all been worth it for Sam’s bright, mesmerizing smile when he’d handed over the dented-in aluminum proudly proclaiming _3rd St_.

The point _being_ , Dean thinks, tipping the bottle of Rittenhouse to his lips until he can hear the faint slosh of liquid against glass, that even though he’d spent a stiff, freezing, miserable night in the Teton County Sheriff’s Station with Officer Beer-Belly sneering at him from behind the bars every chance he could get, the memory doesn’t bring back anything other than a surge of pride at the hero worship that had shined out from his little brother’s eyes. Thinking about it twitches an automatic smirk over his face, every time. Genuine and self-satisfied.

Doing things for Sam makes him happy. It always has. It’s practically etched into his bones at this point. No matter what discomfort or unpleasantness Dean has to go through during, the look on Sam’s face at the end always makes up for it tenfold. Makes the whole thing worth it. Makes Dean want to start all over and go through the misery _again_ just to see the result one more time. Sam cutting him a subtle gaze filled with gratitude or pleasure causes something hot to flutter in his chest and makes his skin feel too tight in the best possible way and gets him all riled up and needy like some kinda lovesick moron until he has to shove Sam away with a gruff, half-assed derailment before he can catch Dean’s idiotic grin.

 _So why_ —Dean silently asks no one at all, brooding in the midnight dark as he sits and steadily drinks at their motel’s cramped side table— _why is it different this time?_

He can barely fit, his elbows knocking against glass or wood every time he shifts positions, but it’s certainly not stopping him. He’d already shoved the courtesy landline to the floor to free up what little space he could, following it down a second later with a beleaguered sigh and a yank of the cord so the dial tone wouldn’t wake Sam contentedly snoozing in the bed behind him. It’s soothing, the faint sound of his brother’s breathing from half a room away, familiar in a way he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get over…but it’s a little nerve-wracking now too; Dean half afraid the moron’s gonna scratch at Death’s wall in his sleep and all Hell’s gonna come busting out again. Like when Sam was twitching on the hard floor in that filthy, gutted-out dump in Bristol. Suffering because Dean had failed to protect him. _Hurting_ in a way he couldn’t stop. He scrapes his tongue against his canines until the rough sting settles his thoughts. It’s easier, when someone else is there for them to lean on. When Bobby can keep an eye on the kid if Dean needs to blink.

They’d been staying at the old man’s place all week—a little longer than that, really—most of their time and attention focused on fixing up the window that Balthazar dick had smashed with his obnoxious little ‘parallel universe’ stunt. Padaleski and whoever the fuck that _Jensen_ guy was— _“I’m a painted whore,” he’d blurted out, more shock and derision than anything else. Meeting his own reflection’s startled eyes in the lighted mirror. Thick base smeared over every imperfection, pink flush adding color to his cheeks, a fleshy rose clinging to his lips. The makeup lady had taken it as a joke, wiping the crap off his face so efficiently he’d actually thanked her. It wasn’t, really.—_ Dean shakes the humiliating memory out of his head, chasing it away with another pull of whiskey. He’d suggested just popping in a new sheet of plate glass, but Bobby had grumped something about the wooden frame being busted to shit, and Dean’s the only one who had actually known how to fix something like that, so the last few days had been spent fitting and planing down splintery beams of wood while Sam handed him the occasional tool and mostly just sat around on his ass, trading guesses with Bobby about what the fuck a “Mother of All” was supposed to be.

He’d finally got the window all patched up somewhere around early evening. Just about the time Sam had started throwing heated looks his way from under his eyelashes. Just about the time Dean had started to chafe under Bobby’s too-watchful gaze. It had been an entire week— _longer than that_ —of playing perfectly fraternal brothers with absolutely nothing to hide. Dean was about ready to jump out of his own skin. They’d begged off with some excuse about stretching their legs for a couple days, stayed for dinner, promised to be back by Monday, and then drove all the way to Brandon just to get out of Sioux Falls’ jurisdiction.

Not like anyone would recognize them anyway. They bunk with Bobby every single time they’re in town, but still.

Better safe than sorry.

The current motel is dirt cheap _and_ nicer than their usual stays, despite the grubby tan carpet. (Not that they’d initially paid much attention to the accommodations past the bed closest to the window.) The matching painted walls are intentionally mottled to hide any stains. A pair of red, woven runners haphazardly tossed over the comforters in an attempt to break up more of that same perpetual beige-tan completely covering the walls, floors, bedspreads, chairs, and curtains. The only oddly distinctive feature that the room bears is a couple of bizarre golf photos framed up above each queen. Dean had stopped in front of one of them when they’d first arrived, vaguely interested in the rough-sketched anatomy of a vintage wooden putter, but Sam had tossed him a curious look and Dean had abruptly turned his attention to unpacking instead—remembering the smart aleck-comment his brother made a few months earlier about the golf clubs he’d kept at Lisa’s.

 _No_ —Dean forcibly reminds himself.  _No, that wasn’t Sam. That wasn’t his little brother. It was…him._ Dean violently shoves the memory of the ice-cold American Psycho fucker out of his head. He’s gone. Forever. Dean fixed it. Sammy’s here in his place and he’ll never have to deal with or even _think_ about him ever again.

Dean takes another sip of liquor just to wash away the lingering thought. It hadn’t taken them very long after settling in to feel the itch, the one that had been creeping under their skin for days by that point. Sam had started casting fervent glances his way, still a little tentative, a little unsure how much he was allowed after—Christ, after fucking _everything_ that had happened between them.

He still can’t believe they are where they are now. It’s been so long since they’ve been able to be together like this. _Together_ like this. Close, intimate, allowed to touch whenever they feel like it. The funny thing—or the bitter thing, depending on who you ask—is that it’s only been three years or so in reality. Plus the decades in Hell Dean spent ripping screaming human flesh from bloody, shattered bone while time slowly chipped away at the memory of his brother’s face. The two distant, estranged years after that on Earth that somehow impossibly felt even longer. An entire relationship with a woman and a kid in perfect, apple-pie suburbia, complete with house and job and electric bills to pay. It’s been a lifetime. Literal or metaphorical. Either way just as painful.

One more pull of booze gets Dean back on track, the slight burn giving him something to focus on.

Sam had been looking at him, gorgeous, heated glances full of intent and want. The exact type of looking Dean’s been used to his whole life. The exact type of looking that still feels exciting and brand-new whenever it comes from his brother. Sam had remained right where he was though, restless and straining like a racehorse just waiting for the starting gate to be lifted. So Dean had done it. He’d stretched himself out nonchalantly on purpose, caught and held Sam’s darkening gaze and invitingly spread his thighs where he’d been sitting on the bed. Pulled his shoulders back a little like he was just working the kinks out. Rolled his neck _just_ enough to accentuate his jaw.

Sam had been on him before he could even pull out the big guns.

He’d practically _pounced_ , slamming him back against the wall, rattling the oversized window and catching the back of Dean’s knees against the air conditioner. Not like either of them cared. Jamming their chests together until Dean had let out a deep, satisfied groan and bucked up against the solid weight of his brother. “Something you need, Sammy?” he’d joked.

Sam had laughed, sharp exhale of breath right in his ear. “You have no idea, Dean.” Low and hot and everything Dean’s ever wanted, right there for the taking.

So taken he had, dragging his brother down to capture Sam’s mouth the way he wants to every goddamn minute of the day, but so rarely can. Slightly chapped skin giving way to the hot, wet slide of his tongue. Sam’s hands clawing at his waist, a needy moan smothered between them, the firm curves of his brother’s chest under his fingertips, Dean pulling away for a moment just to breathe, and then, “Missed you.” He’d whispered it into their shared air. Same thing he always said since they started this back up again. Since _Sammy_ came back to him.

Sam had leaned back to pin him with the most grateful grin he’d ever seen, eyes clear and sparkling. “Missed you,” he echoed right back in return, open and sincere, even though he didn’t mean a word of it. He couldn’t. Sam doesn’t remember them being apart. Dean envies him for it.

He’d tugged his brother back in, one hand sliding through his hair to cradle the base of his skull, the other wrapped warm and protective around the nape of his neck. Guiding Sam back to his mouth. Soft. Those lurid pink lips he’s spent so much of his life fixating on. Sam surging into it hard enough to sting. Bright zing of lust flaring through Dean’s crotch, throbbing against his brother’s too-chiseled abs. The cliff-carved cut of his hips. Two layers of thick, rough denim biting against the sensitive skin. Sam’s wild, needy growls slipping through the teeth he’d been scraping over Dean’s chin. Soft rasp of stubble on bone. And then Sam had wriggled one broad hand down the back of his jeans, curled his fingers in, and _squeezed_.

And Dean’s blood had suddenly gone cool. Frozen in place for half a heartbeat before he forced himself back together. “Oh, yeah?” he’d asked, aiming for casually eager and missing it by about three or four miles.

Sam was too far gone to notice. “ _God_ , yes,” he’d breathed, taking Dean’s attempt at laidback for coy enthusiasm. He’d yanked open the fly of his jeans, spike of arousal at the rough treatment keeping Dean’s cock hard enough to match the tight lump clenching in his throat. His brother had mumbled something under his breath then, overheated overemotional nonsense spilling from his lips as he’d reached further around to get a more solid grip on Dean’s ass, one sharp thumbnail distractedly catching against the base of his spine— _icy stab of dread bursting out to searing lines of agony every time Alastair twisted the knife. Dean’s throat already scoured raw from the screaming._

_“Best way to separate a person into halves, by the way,” he’d crooned offhand, dark and soft and just for him. Teaching him like always. Such a dedicated teacher. “You have to start from the bottom and work your way up to the top. Back first, and then the front. You’ll ruin it if you do it the other way around. The skin won’t come off clean, and who wants that?”_

_Dean had always listened. Even when he’d fought and roared and spat at the fucker’s nightmare face, some part of him had listened. Alastair was a good teacher. It had served him well for years afterwards_ —“…’ll see, Dean,” Sam had still been babbling when Dean came back to himself, his words deep and breathy. “Got no idea how much I want you. Gonna make you feel so good.” He’d almost completely enfolded him in his arms by then, unaware Dean had missed the first half of his little spiel. His fingers burrowing deeper into the crack of his ass, pressing and flirting against the tight furl of skin.

Dean had to manually force himself to unclench every muscle in his body. “I know you will, Sammy,” he’d said quietly back. Though he’s still not sure if his brother had caught it.

It had been simple enough from there to let Sam wrangle him to the bed, undress him completely.

He’d flipped over the first chance he got, left Sam to his eager ministrations and bit at the inside corner of his lip until he could taste metal. Pretended it didn’t send an electric thrill through him every time his brother’s long, deft fingers sought out his damned hotspot. Pretended his dick was still hard and aching from their rough and tumble make-out session earlier. From _anything_ else. Anything but this.

Because if he didn’t enjoy it, if he never actually came, then that would make this something he’s doing for Sam. That’s all. And Dean can do that easy as breathing—like stealing his little brother a street sign and spending the night in a crappy Montana lock-up for it. He’d do absolutely anything to make Sam happy as long as he doesn’t have to…

Dean had let his head drop down between his shoulders through the rest of the prep. Had clenched and twisted his fingers into the bedcovers when Sam had finally breached him, wet slide filling him up until there wasn’t a single part of him left empty and welcome sliver of pain riding the edge of the too-sweet pleasure. Third leg like Sam’s carrying, you ain’t skipping out on that pain— _wouldn’t want to, though, even if you could_ — He’d refused to touch his own swollen dick, swinging heavy between his legs with each vigorous thrust. Tried to stay completely still, silent, just animate enough to reassure Sam he was still in this with him. Not animate enough to make it seem like he wanted more.

Yeah, right. Like any of Dean’s hopes or wishes had ever worked out for him before.

“Shit,” he’d whispered, strained and quiet, as Sam had pounded him from behind like he was trying to bore out a permanent space for himself, fingers digging bloodless, white marks into his hips.

His little brother had taken it as praise.

He’d deserved to.

It was a pitiful fucking showing, overall. Dean only managed to hold out just long enough for Sam to stutter and collapse against his back, hitched breath and bitten-off moan dragging down the knobs of his spine, before shattering to pieces himself— _“Your daddy, now **that** was a real man. What would he think of you now?”_—coming completely untouched with a choked cry. Even more pathetic than the other sparse few times they’ve done it this way. Shameful proof of his enjoyment splattered out across the hideous beige pillows. Sam hadn’t even had to touch his fucking cock.

His brother, on the other hand, had been more than delighted with the evening’s events—making a half-assed attempt at cozying up to him afterwards, but still letting Dean shake him off without too much fuss. He’s been well-accustomed to Dean’s stringent rules on cuddling for years now, no matter how often he tries to skirt around them. The immediate wipe-down with the flat sheet and rigid line of his back probably didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary given the way he usually bristles at Sam’s all-too-frequent chick flick endeavors. Dean had eventually caved at the obvious dismay Sam was trying to smother though, giving him one arm to press his own against. Compromise is the most important _whatever_ when it comes to equal _blah, blah, blah_ , after all. No one could say he doesn’t do his part.

But he made sure Sam got stuck with the wet spot.

As soon as his brother had fallen asleep, sated and content and solidly unconscious beneath the bedspread’s stupid red runner, Dean had slipped his nerve-prickly right arm from under Sam’s weight, silently padded across the room, planted himself in this beige fucking chair, and put away—he lifts his evening companion up to shake the amber liquid inside, judging the remaining amount by sight—the better part of a bottle, apparently. Not too bad for a night’s worth of drinking. Dean quietly scoffs to himself, an entire life of failure and embarrassment summed up in one fifth of rye. Here he is, world. What a fucking catch. The glass clinks too loud against the table when he drops it back down again, clearly he’s had enough by now to impair his reflexes, and Sam lets out a half-sound from behind him, sheets rustling softly as they shift against his bare skin. Probably blindly feeling around for him before realizing he’s not there anymore.

“Dean?” he questions, muffled from sleep and the cotton pillow he’s been drooling on for the last few hours. “Wha’s wrong?”

Dean’s eyes are already adjusted to the dark, the way he’s been sitting here since…whatever time it was that normal people were supposed to go to bed. He watches his brother blink a few times, trying to make out his fuzzy shape in the low light. Dean almost regrets his alcohol-soaked patience though as Sam sucks in a disappointed breath once he finally gets the full picture.

It’s the same fucking expression Sam would get as a little kid, right before he’d go on some half-baked quest to hide all their dad’s liquor. Part of it, loosely filtered ideas from that dumb D.A.R.E. program at his elementary school, and part of it, pure childlike belief that the attempt could actually change things.

On the good days, it worked. John would idly parse through the mini-fridge for a drink, let out a tight chuckle once he realized what was going on, and then join them at the small table for one of their ‘special occasion’ dinners. All three of them with McDonald’s Happy Meals or matching bowls of sugary frosted cereal, even though Dean knew his dad hated the stuff. He and Sam answering monster trivia to win spare fries or marshmallows.

But, on the bad days…Dean would have to wait until the sobbing started. Trying to cut him off any earlier would just get him ignored. The lights would always be dimmed so low they were almost off, so John could wallow in peace. Sam tucked into one corner of their shared bed, skinny arms curled around his knees as he silently waited it out. But once the sobbing started, it was over—the last dregs of booze dripping from the lip of the tipped-over, empty bottles scattered around the kitchenette, the rest of it soaking the front of his dad’s shirts as Dean had to drag him to the other bed to sleep it off. The hiding skills of a child no match for a seasoned alcoholic, no matter how much John pretended they were for Sammy’s sake on those precious good days.

On _Dean’s_ good days, he can have a beer or six with his brother. Sam matching him bottle for bottle at first before lagging behind. But he never outpaces him too far and Sam’s smiles get warmer the more he drinks, the thin skin of his eyelids gets washed pink.

On the bad days, Sam looks at him just like this.

His brother pushes himself up to sitting, bleary eyes skimming over the rumpled t-shirt and day’s boxers Dean had thrown back on after… _after_. He tugs the sheet up a little squarer over his lap once he realizes he’s the only one naked in the room, then seems to think better of it, silently stepping across the carpet to figure out what Dean’s actually up to. “What’s wrong?” he asks again, quiet and tired, sliding his giant mitts over Dean’s shoulders and molding himself against his back. Though it’s more just exhaustedly leaning his weight on him than an actual hug. “Go to sleep.”

“Will in a bit.” Dean knows his voice sounds rougher than just the liquor can account for, and Sam’s annoyingly intuitive enough to pick up on it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. ‘Course I am.”

There’s a long pause. His brother takes him at his word though, nodding sleepily against the back of his neck before heading away to slip back underneath his covers. Sam twists the other way this time, broad curve of his back rising and falling with each gentle breath against the meager street light from the window. Silhouette carved softly out of gray shadows as he drifts off again.

 _‘Course I am._ Dean isn’t even sure if it’s a lie or not.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 _He’d brought it on himself_ —he thinks as he watches Sam stir the next morning. _That stopover on the way to Detroit._ A beam of sunlight hits the venetian blinds just exact enough to cast a strip of bright gold right over his brother’s eyes. Sam frowns at the unconscious assault, wrinkles his brow up, and then flips over with a plaintive sound. He’s awake now, but it almost makes Dean want to join him in the next bed over. Wrap up his brother from behind and let them both sleep in for another hour or so. Warm smell of shampoo and generic laundry detergent.

Ironically enough, the first time wasn’t so hard. He’d been dead anyway—all the parts of him that mattered. Having to watch his little brother try to put on and maintain a brave face, all the while knowing he was marching to his own execution the very next day. Cas and Bobby splitting a room across the hall that they didn’t need just to lend them this final bit of privacy. It had been so easy to give in then. To give Sam the only thing he had left _to_ give. The only thing he hadn’t given him already. His heart, his soul, his body. His life. There was only one last piece for his brother to have. Dean had handed it over willingly and Sam had clung to him like he knew how much it cost him, clenching his eyes shut and holding his breath tight in his throat so Dean wouldn’t know he was crying. As if Sam could possibly hide something like that from him. Dean had turned onto his hands and knees just to break him off a tiny bit of peace. So they could both pretend the hitched breaths and strangled sobs of pain were solely from the physical exertion. Neither of them had come. It didn’t matter. That’s not what it was about.

The second time had been easier too. Sam freshly re-souled and filled to the brim with all those girly emotions Dean loved to pretend to hate so much. Their first time since Detroit. Their first time since Dean thought he’d never be able to have this again. And Sam had looked up at him, hair fanned out across that ugly-ass motel pillowcase, eyes wide and yearning, and he’d flashed right back to that night. He didn’t have it in him to say no. He’d let his brother open him up, and all Dean could think was _Sammy_. _His_ Sammy. Sweet and earnest and stubborn and goddamn annoying three-quarters of the time, but all _his_. Dean hadn’t even had time to feel self-conscious. All that mattered was that Sam was real and back and in his arms where he was supposed to be. Where he would be for the rest of their lives if Dean had anything to say about it. He’d crushed his brother to his chest and Sam had squeezed back even tighter, and then Sam had ruthlessly stripped his cock like he was trying to start a fire and it was over in one explosive moment and Dean had _honestly_ thought that that was it.

That they’d go back to normal and this new little… _arrangement_ of theirs would be saved for special occasions. Final goodbyes and miraculous reunions.

Only, Sam clearly wasn’t on the same page.

And Dean gets it. Really, he does. He plays at selfish dick far more often than he actually is one. Sam obviously enjoys something nice and warm to stick it to, the rare few times he’d sought solace in a softer, more feminine body— _“What do you think will be left, Dean?” he’d asked. That self-amused, nasally murmur taking a break from the endless, melodic humming—an old 40s song Dean half-recognizes—to teach him something new today. Alastair had trailed the knife over the remains of Dean’s bleeding carcass. The slick, weighted muscle filleted from his arms. Swathes forcefully hacked out of his sides, messy, dripping entrails coloring outside the lines. Sickly red glint off his torturer’s immaculate blade. “What does this shape become once we whittle away all the pieces that make you you?”_ —Hell, that soulless asshole steering his rig had practically dived headfirst into a sea of women with none of his brother’s emotional hang-ups to weigh him down. It makes perfect sense that he’d thought Dean was offering the flip in positions on a more regular, more permanent basis.

Sam’s up by now, wishing him a sleep-garbled good morning, and Dean takes the opportunity to half-heartedly goose him on the way by.

And it’s _fair_ , which is the most obnoxious thing. Sam had spent the entire year they were first together taking it solely up the ass and he never had a goddamn complaint to spare. It’s the freaking _least_ Dean can do to match that sacrifice half the time.

_Only, it isn’t really a sacrifice, is it?_

He listens to the muffled crash of water as the bathroom shower starts up and tries not to let his own guilt eat at him.

He’d come last night. He’d come fucking _untouched_.

Dean waits for Sam to finish in the bathroom before he takes his turn. Doesn’t slip inside and join him in the shower like he wants to. Like he knows Sam wants him to. Wet skin and humid smell of perfumed soap, the cheap kind, but after so many positive _associations_ over the years it still gets his dick hard faster than it should. Strong, slippery body against his front. Suds slick and dripping between them. The taste of clean skin on his tongue. Dean forcefully adjusts his morning wood on the way past his brother and furiously tries to ignore the deep, satisfied ache further back. And maybe he runs the water a little colder than he needs to.

There’s a little half-sink built into the entryway wall with a full coffee bar and two available mugs, so despite being dressed and freshly-shaved, they settle for the motel’s mediocre brew instead of their usual Starbucks or diner run. There aren’t any real sugar packets though, only Sweet n’ Low, which causes Sam to cringe his way through his first few sips. Dean tries not to chuckle too loudly.

“Don’t strain yourself there,” he tosses at his brother in a sarcastic monotone.

Sam rolls his eyes at the typical mockery, but smiles at him over the lip of his chipped porcelain anyway. “ _You’re_ the one who made a big fuss about not leaving this room for three days.”

“Damn straight,” he says into his own drink. He’d just got Sam back, for Christ’s sake. Dean ain’t gonna apologize for penciling in a sex weekend. He lets out a snort though, kicking his leg out just enough to nudge at Sam’s ankle where he’s all stretched out and half-leaning his ass on the plain countertop. Because god forbid the kid could sit on a bed like a normal person.

They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to.

And Dean wants to let it be, wants to just roll over and accept any small bit of peace they manage to eke out against the constant struggle of their lives…but even that slightest mention of sex—not even a mention, an _indication_ , really—gets his thoughts spinning their wheels off in his head. The long, casual outline of Sam’s body in front of him. Big hands nearly swamping the perfectly normal-sized coffee cup they’re wrapped around. Barely visible swell of that anaconda he keeps in his pants due to the baffling way he always seems to wear his jeans two sizes too big. Dean’s never had an issue with his little brother’s… _proportions_ before—not past your standard sibling rivalry stuff or half-joking squabbles—hell, it’s always been the opposite of an issue, really. Having all that size, all that strength gasping and writhing and straining under his every touch. Fuck. It’s the closest thing to heaven Dean’s ever felt—and that’s including _actual_ Heaven. But now…?

Now all of Sam’s incidental bulk isn’t so fun anymore. Not when it serves as a constant reminder of what they do now. Who they are now. Not since— _he’d enjoyed it. He’d **wanted** it._

Dean doesn’t make a sound, but he grips tighter against his scalding mug. Lets it burn at his fingertips. He can be a goddamn adult about this. He can work all this bullshit out in his head without his brother ever noticing that something’s up. ‘Cause it doesn’t fucking matter, right? Sam used to catch all the friggin’ time and it never shaved a few inches off his dick. It’s not like Dean’s gonna forget how to shoot a handgun or replace a fan belt. It doesn’t change anything.

His brain tells him it’s fine.

The coiled heap of venomous self-loathing that lives in his chest tells him he’s an idiot to believe that.

‘Cause it matters, right? Of course it does. Because it isn’t just about getting off on the whole dick in the ass thing. Not really. …It’s about becoming that kind of person. Like if Dean lets himself give in, even the tiniest bit, he’s gonna wake up one morning in an alley outside a dive bar sporting a pair of thrift store heels and the tattooed phone number of some redneck named _Buck_ across his lower back.

At least as of now, what he does with Sam—what they do _together_ —it isn’t exactly better than fucking the normal way. Not yet. ‘Cause hell if there isn’t anything in this godforsaken world Dean Winchester likes more than getting his dick wet. He’s still man enough for that at least. But despite the way it curdles his guts, Dean does have to admit it’s pretty damn close. And that’s not even counting… Yeah. It hurts in a way that sex usually doesn’t, but something about the— _quick, violent slash of red. The cut’s deep, so deep Dean can see the dark, wet slick of her organs past the hip-to-hip slit he’s carved into her lower abdomen. They’ve been at this long enough that the woman’s screaming has mostly turned to sobs by now. He doesn’t know what she’s done—he’d stopped asking about the souls on his rack years ago. But she’s here. She’s here which means she deserves this. He carefully slips his fingers inside the incision, rubs little circles against the raw, bleeding flesh, and then violently yanks the gash apart and holds it wide open until her ear-piercing wail turns into a trembling moan. And Dean gets it. Dean gets it with such crystalline clarity. Because it’s better to atone. It feels so fucking sublime to just accept the punishment that you know you deserve. To let the white-hot slash of searing pain subsume everything else. To let it wipe your slate clean_ —Dean forcibly jerks his head to the side, scatters the half-formed thought out of his brain, wrangles his breathing back to normal. He really doesn’t need to delve any deeper into his fucked-up psyche today than he already has.

He’s not sure why all this old Hell bullshit seems to be coming up now anyways. It’s been so long. He hasn’t thought about Alastair deeper than the occasional skitter of memory in—Jesus— _years_ , now. Well…until _Meg_ , that is. Psycho bitch draping herself over his lap, pushing the predatory sexual angle as if that was gonna do anything. Practically _begging_ for their help with Crowley under the clumsily disguised threat. Fucking amateur hour. Said she’d been trained too. Fine, maybe she was. But Dean was always his best pupil. Teacher’s pet. Gold stars all around. Dean takes another strong sip of coffee, letting it cut through the memories. Wipes his sweaty palm off on the comforter. Maybe that’s where this is coming from. Stupid pissant demons unearthing shit that didn’t need to be unearthed.

“You okay?”

He glances up to catch his brother’s colorful eyes, soft and too-perceptive in the morning light. There’s too much depth to his gaze. It ain’t natural. “What? Yeah,” Dean says gruffly. “Why?”

“You’re quiet.” Sam watches him for a moment more, then places his empty mug down near his hip. “Quiet last night too.” He’s not talking about the actual fucking, or maybe he is. Dean can’t ever parse out what his brother means when he starts speaking in fragments of riddles like this. Sam tries for a flirty smile, but the kid’s never been much good at easygoing. “Maybe I can do something about that?” he says suggestively, pushing away from the counter to edge into his space. Obvious intent to his movements. “Get a head start on our _plans_ for today.”

Sam leans down to slide a hand up the length of his thigh, something he’s done a thousand times before—but Dean suddenly, _violently_ flinches away. Totally involuntary. Anxiety spiking through his chest. Nearly scrambles backwards up the bed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. His sore ass throbs as he clenches it.

They both just freeze there, gawping at each other for way too long. It’s not— That’s not how Dean has _ever_ — He swallows hard to fix his dry mouth, scours his brain to think of something to say in his defense, and comes up completely blank. The offer of a sure thing’s _never_ made him react this way before. Not in fifteen fucking years. Honestly, he’s not sure he’s ever felt less like himself.

His brother is the one to break the silence first, trying to turn the whole thing into a joke. “Alright, it was bad line, I admit,” he concedes self-deprecatingly, “but you don’t have to _wince_.”

Dean opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but he can’t seem to make his tongue work for the life of him. His hand aches a little where his coffee had splashed over the rim and burned him. He barely even notices it. “Sorry. Just not feeling it,” Dean mumbles eventually. As if a weak excuse like that is enough in the aftermath of what just went down.

His brother raises a single eyebrow, clearly not sure if he’s still committed to some bit. “Really?” he teases mildly. _“You?”_

“What, Sam?” he snaps at him, apparently unable to keep a leash on the wide swings of his temper either. “You want me to feed you some line about having a headache?” He shoves himself off the bed, flings his mug into the sink basin with a wince-worthy shatter of porcelain, and scrapes his hands dry on his jeans. “Sorry, honey. Had a busy day watching the kids and vacuuming the carpets. Maybe your secretary is more in the mood.”

Sam’s eyebrows do that confused jump dance over his forehead. “What?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“Y’know, since you’re clearly set on treating me like your little _wife_.”

His brother just blinks at him. “Are you—Dean, are you serious?”

And Sam’s right. It’s insane. He’s acting absolutely insane. “Just fucking _nevermind_ , Sam,” he hisses. He’s leagues more pissed at himself than he is his brother anyway. Dean shoulders past Sam’s bewildered expression and into the cramped bathroom, slamming the door behind him with a worrisome creak of the frame and twisting the lock until it clicks. _Great_. He’d forgot it was fucking beige in here too.

Dean only gets one nanosecond of peace before Sam is hesitantly knocking at the door, his voice muffled through the wood. “Dean, c’mon. What the hell?”

He ignores him. Glares at the bleach-scoured bathroom tile and tries to get ahold of himself. The back of his hand is pink. Dean digs his fingernails into the meat of his palm and forces his gaze up at the mirror instead, watches his reflection glare at him from beneath his stupid, girly fucking eyelashes. The tense set to his jaw. Curved scar under his chin from when Cas had drop-kicked him into a chain-link fence. _Always disappointing somebody._ Dean slams his eyes shut and focuses on his breathing for a minute or two. Tries not to think about anything other than the methodical inhale-exhale of air passing through his lungs. Tries not to think about anything at all.

When he finally opens his eyes again, his knuckles are sore from continuously clenching his fists and he has no idea of how much time has passed.

Dean wants to just forget any of this ever happened, wants to pretend that this newfound _inclination_ of his is just some stupid phase that’ll pass if he ignores it or rides it out. But he can’t. He can’t because it’s a fucking lie.

It’s happened before.

Back during that slow year’s march into Hell, right when he and Sam had first crossed that deranged point of no return together. Had willingly flung themselves over the last line of decency separating brothers and _brothers_ , with no going back. Part of Dean has regretted it every moment since. A much larger part wants to go back in time and face his younger self just to make sure that no version of him _ever_ makes a different choice.

It had still been so new back then, so terrifying in its exhilaration. Sam had had him pinned down to an old, discarded mattress. All those long, lean lines of him. Frantically grinding down against anything he could reach and letting out little sounds of desperation on every visible breath. It had been one of their ‘maxed credit card’ stretches, squatting in the most suitable vacancy for weeks on end and keeping each other warm the best they could with the central heating having already been shut off. It was _perfect_. Better than the best one-night Dean had ever convinced to let him follow her back to her place. His little brother artlessly dry humping him in the middle of some abandoned two-story Ma and Pa Ordinary couldn’t keep afloat of.

Sweat and salt in the freezing New Year’s air. Happy fucking 2008. Hands down each other’s pants, fingers clumsily linked together over the hot slip of their matching erections. Dean had been so close, intent on riding that glorious razor-edge until Sam tipped over first— _always_ until Sam tipped over first—when in the heat of the moment, his brother had snaked his left hand underneath his shoulders, wriggled it down the length of his back and then rubbed over his hole,  _hard_ , just as Dean came even harder. The shock of it half the trigger.

…Dean doesn’t really like to dwell on what the other half was.

He’d freaked the fuck out even before he’d finished riding out the aftershocks, shoving Sam off of him, spitting and cursing and vehemently tearing him a new metaphorical asshole of his own. He’d even left the little bitch high and dry, stalked off to an entire other room of the house and forced them both to suffer through the cold night alone just for the presumption of it all. Sam had never touched him there again.

_Not until Detroit._

Dean knows his brother hadn’t meant anything by it. It was still new, the thing between them, and they’d been experimenting. If that’s what you could call it. _Experimenting—_ he thinks with no small amount of disdain. Like a couple of kids playing ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ out behind the woodshed. But he still wonders if Sam remembers that moment. If he thinks Dean changed his mind recently, or if he just thinks that he was lying back then. If he _knew_ , even as it happened. If he could smell it on him. That vulnerability.

Dean swallows back stomach acid and refuses to meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror. He probably _did_ reek of it. It wasn’t the only time he’d slipped into that kind of weakness, that specific kind of self-loathing afterwards.

He’d been home alone at their house in Cicero once. Ben at school, Lisa at work. Dean hadn’t yet dragged himself past the ‘day-drinking and intermittent catatonia’ stage of grieving Sam. It would still be another two months before he’d end up tripping and falling into the construction job. He’d been in their shared shower, the big, clean steam shower with the gorgeous water pressure and fancy glass door and dedicated hot water heater, and he’d been choking back sobs as he furiously jacked his cock to old memories of Sam. It had felt like a betrayal, running his fist over his aching dick and thinking about his dead brother. Because it was the exact same kind of stimulation he’d get with Lisa, with the woman who’d opened her home and her arms to him. Who’d taken him in without asking a single intrusive question and who handled his rages and his nightmares and his emptiness with the patience of a saint. It was the same sensation, the same build-up he’d feel whenever he was in Lisa’s bed and in Lisa’s body, and meanwhile, he was thinking about Sam in _her_ master shower and she’d never know.

The pathetic part had come when he’d fucking done it to himself. No one else around he could blame for that one. It was the only way he could force his body to remember Sam— _just_ Sam, like he deserved—without bringing up skin flashbacks of the countless slew of faceless, nameless women he’d loved and left. The only thing he’d never done with anyone else. Not wholly. Dean had stuck his own fingers up his ass while his live-in girlfriend was out teaching yoga to pretentious MILFs and his pseudo-adopted son was learning about the Louisiana Purchase or some shit and he’d fantasized about a man while he’d done it until he’d painted her navy shower tiles white. And he doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself more for anything.— _That’s a goddamn lie. He’d let Sam **die**._

Dean waits until his breathing has edged back to normal. Until enough time has gone by that he’s pretty sure he won’t fly off the handle at one of Sam’s careless, accidental words. Won’t give either of them any more reason to regret this. He doesn’t think he could bear living like they have the last few years again.

When he finally steps back out into the main room, his little brother is thankfully silent. A quick scan of the half-counter reveals that Sam has cleaned up the evidence of his little shit-fit too. The broken cup and the spilled coffee. Dean bites back a regretful sigh and logs that away for later. He should make sure that his brother didn’t cut himself on any of the leftover shards.

He ignores Sam when he walks past the motel table, and when he settles back down on the edge of his own bed, and Sam doesn’t say anything to him at all from his matching perch, but he keeps shooting him these fleeting little looks. Indecisive and uncertain.

But Dean can live with indecisive as long as it’s a quiet indecisive, and he clicks on the TV without a word.

The second or third channel he lands on is playing a rerun from the latest season of Breaking Bad. Good. It’s vaguely familiar enough that he doesn’t have to focus on it too hard, but still recent enough that it gives them an excuse to not talk over the dialogue. Dean dumps the remote next to him on the comforter and they both watch in uncomfortable silence for twenty minutes or so.

“Does that coffee guy ever come back?”

He almost flinches at the sound of his brother’s voice, surprised Sam’s willing to make any conversation at all that doesn’t revolve around Dean’s current emotional state. He cuts him a glance out of the corner of his eye, just to be sure. “The dude Jesse iced?”

“Wait, what?” Sam breathes out in amused disbelief. “ _Jesse_ killed him? Seriously?”

Dean twists his face up in confusion before he realizes… Ben already tucked up, nice and snug in bed, and Dean had been drinking since sometime around noon. Bulbs dimmed low in the living room to better illuminate the glaring blue TV light of Walter White’s descent into depravity. Microwave popcorn butter on his fingertips and a supple, warm body sprawled over his chest as she’d slept through most of the finale. He’d watched it with Lisa, not Sam. Sam had been busy getting his skin flayed off by Lucifer in the Cage. Sam had been busy palling around with Samuel and the rest of the Funky Bunch. Dean swallows hard and tries not to choke on his own bile. Maybe Robodick  _had_ watched it when it first aired, middle of the night, alone in some motel room just like this one. Or maybe he hadn’t even cared enough to bother.

Dean changes the channel with a remorseless flick of his thumb. “Shit,” he says hoarsely. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Sam tosses him a weak smile and rests his forearms against his bent knees, links his fingers together as he picks at a hangnail. “Kinda more your show than mine anyway.”

“I guess,” he says mutedly. It’s not really true though.

Dean flips through a few more channels until he lands on something neither of them could care less about. No risk of bringing up bad memories. Anything to keep them from talking about it.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam finally steps over the invisible line dividing them about two hours after a USA marathon of House and a quick, lackluster lunch from the delivery spot around the corner. Dean gives in so fast it’s almost embarrassing, even though he’d been the one to mulishly mark it out in the first place. Still. He instantly closes his eyes with a sigh of surrender and leans into the elegant fingers gently tracing around the hinge of his jaw, the outline of his mouth. Sam smells like cilantro, and he tastes like Pad Thai, and he slips onto his lap like he’s made of water. Kisses him slow and chaste and careful. Annoyingly cautious after what happened earlier. Like he’s some precious, delicate thing that Sam doesn’t want to break. Like he thinks Dean is too weak to take what he knows his brother is dying to dish out.

A sharp flicker of resentment flares to life in his belly, catching and spreading like burning flash paper, and Dean stiffens at the affront. He digs his fingers into his brother’s sides, squares the considerable bulk in his arms, and then twists and _heaves_ Sam onto the bed in an effort to goad him into pushing back. His weight bounces against the mattress, soft _oof_ of breath as a few strands of hair fly up around his face, but he doesn’t shift from where he’s been tossed. Lying there, all pliant and obedient. It itches at Dean something fierce, so he crawls up over his prone body to rile him up, to get Sam to wrestle and grapple and shove until he’s on top again. The way they do.

But his brother just rolls with the punches. Effortless and easy. He blinks up at him with a lazy smile, looking for all the world like he’s totally fine to stay just like this. They don’t usually do it this way. Sam on his back. Dean calling the unspoken shots. It’s…different. Hell, it’s almost actively weird, but he supposes he can try and mix it up a little if his brother wants. Be grateful for the rare afternoon delight, whatever form it comes in. And, hey, Sammy’s the one who asked—well, _no_ , Sammy’s the one who arbitrarily planted himself like this and refused to budge, but whatever. Semantics.

And given the way things seem to be going, Dean isn’t gonna have to worry about any more unscheduled trips down south. At least for today. So, really, what does he even care as long as he’s getting what he wants?

Dean methodically strips Sam down, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left separating them but his lingering tan. He brushes his gaze down his brother’s body in wide sweeps, follows it with his hands. Broad, flat drag of his palms over taut, smooth skin. Course correcting every time Sam’s breathing picks up. Exploring the sheer size of him just by touch, slow and thorough, the way he so rarely allows himself the luxury to. Dean’s little brother, a constant contradiction in and of himself. With the pretty eyes and the pretty hair and the pretty mouth—and a body that could take down a linebacker.

Sam’s even bigger now than he used to be. Than he’s ever been. His hips are still slim enough for Dean to wrap his hands around, but the lean strength of his arms has been replaced by solid swells of muscle. His shoulders packed even broader than before, which seems damned impossible despite the evidence. His jawline’s a little less pronounced, the angles of his face not quite as gaunt. He looks healthy. _Healthy_ —Dean can’t help but scoff to himself. All that demon blood. All that soulless cardio. _Does a body good._

He’s not sure if he’s pissed off at the proof of everything his brother’s been through, or if he’s just pissed off at himself for how much the new physique revs him up in spite of current events. Well—new _-ish_ physique, at least. Because Sam’s looked like this for a good while now, but Dean hadn’t been allowed to touch back then, hands metaphorically tied by his own bitterness. His own resentful proclamations.

_“I just—I don’t think that we can ever be what we were. You know?”_

He sweeps away the cobwebs of the painful night outside that hospital. It’s been a couple years, but he wonders if Sam remembers it too. Knows he does, given that giant steel trap his brother calls a mind. Still hopes that he doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter. Maybe they _aren’t_ exactly what they were. Maybe they’re better. They can make up for it now.

He finally ducks down to press his lips against the warm, steady beat of Sam’s heart. His matching tattoo. The light scattering of chest hair because soulless him had apparently decided to stop manscaping. Dean hates to admit that he likes it, but he does. A hell of a lot. But it’s still one more new thing to familiarize himself with. He likes that less.

Sam lets out a breathy groan at the wet drag of Dean’s mouth, jams his head back against the pillows and twitches his hips up against Dean’s weight as he slowly trails down his body. Teasing flicker of tongue darting out to catch the tip of one tight nipple. A longer, more leisurely kiss dragged down the center line of his abs. Lower. Brief scrape of teeth along the cut of his hip gets him an uninhibited shiver. Lower.

His brother lets out a whispered curse once he realizes where he’s headed.

It isn’t Dean’s favorite activity in the world—he’d rather eat pussy than ass _any_ day of the week—but every single muscle in Sam’s body clenches tight when Dean hefts his legs up over his shoulders and stabs his stiffened tongue past the hot, fluttering rim of his asshole. The shaky gasp from above him makes the whole thing worth it. The way Sam trembles apart under his fingers and his mouth makes the whole thing worth it.

Dean takes his sweet time opening his brother up. Stolidly ignores the dark, earthy taste of it as he stretches Sam out until the thick muscle of his tongue is strained and sore. Warm, wet spit soaking the crisp, wiry hair and washing the salt from his skin and coating the lower half of Dean’s face. He savors every dragging moan and frustrated whine of arousal he coaxes out of Sam, a little louder than usual—each desperate sound pinging a direct line straight to his own dick. Endures the stinging bite of short fingernails gouging red half-moons out of his arms with the patience of a goddamn saint.

He only pulls back when he stops being able to breathe with the way Sam’s legs are strangling the life out of him.

“Don’t stop,” Sam gasps out at the ceiling, clamping down on him even tighter.

Dean painstakingly extricates himself from his brother’s python thighs. “Not gonna stop, dumbass,” he tosses back, sucking his fingers into his mouth and then pressing them up inside Sam until he throws his head back and makes a sound like he’s dying. Loosening his inner walls up a little more where his tongue can no longer provide the necessary reach.

Sam could always multitask with the best of them though, barely letting him wipe his soaked face off on a corner of the sheets before he’s trying to yank Dean back up to his own mouth.

“Man, you know where that’s been,” Dean teases, ducking out of the way.

His brother lets out a distinct punch of breath, making a clumsy grab for his face that doesn’t come anywhere near to connecting. “Don’t care,” he says, wildly fumbling for contact.

He keeps his neck stretched out of reach. “Too bad.”

Sam lets out a defeated laugh that quickly morphs into another groan when Dean scrubs his fingers over his prostate. “Do that again,” he orders, breathless and automatic, then belatedly flinches a little at his own words. He swallows hard, even his hips stilling against Dean’s hand. “If you want,” Sam adds quickly, in that totally inscrutable way he gets sometimes.

Dean eyeballs him for a moment, but decides to ignore the confusing little eddies of his brother’s mind. He might get lost otherwise. “What, you think I’m gonna stop now?” he asks rhetorically, repeating the same motion again. Though he tries not to read too much into it when Sam doesn’t go quite so crazy this time. Barely bucks up into it at all.

So Dean reaches his left out to wrap around his brother’s neglected cock, hot, velvet steel throbbing under his fingers to the rhythm of Sam’s pulse. Easiest way to get this flagging show on the road.

“Don’t need it,” Sam assures him, even as he gets noticeably harder at Dean’s touch, that long dick twitching and thickening in his very hand. And, okay, sure they’ve finished without a reach-around before. _Both of them_ —an obnoxious voice in Dean’s head feels the need to remind him before he can kick it away. But it’s not like Sam to fucking _turn down_ an accompanying hand job.

“You alright?” Dean can’t stop himself from finally asking. And, okay, that should probably be Sam’s line—has been, actually, the last couple days—but something hinky’s going on here and Dean’s not sure which one of them is to blame for it.

His brother nods his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, c’mon. Want you to fuck me.” He flicks his tongue out to wet his lips, stretches his head up to Dean’s ear and whispers low and dirty. “Want you to fuck me until I can’t walk. Want Bobby to ask me why I’m limping on Monday.”

The wave of brilliant heat that washes through him at those words scorches away any lingering remainder of Dean’s hesitance. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he breathes, shifting away from Sam, trying to get ahold of himself before he comes in his goddamn pants. “Who taught you to talk filth like that?”

Sam grins at him like he’s sixteen again. Disobedient little bitch trying to get him to skip out on Dad’s training and take him to the movies instead. Dean only manages a straight face for a second or two before a reluctant grin of his own breaks free, as helpless now against Sam’s charms as he was back then. They don’t need to say it. There was a perpetual, lanky shadow that used to lurk at the cracks of his bedroom doors growing up, and Dean would always thrust up into his girl of the moment a little more acrobatically, would let his whisper-wicked flattery get just that much louder whenever he felt his brother’s silent eyes on him. Shit. They’d been well beyond fucked-up before they’d ever given into this themselves.

Dean leans back on his haunches to peel himself out of his own sweat-damp t-shirt, skins the jeans from his legs with only minimal swearing and flailing. There’s lube somewhere. Sam must have put it somewhere after he’d— _Stop it_ —and Dean has to get up and scrounge around through both their bags before he finds it in Sam’s.

He coats his fingers with the stuff, presses back inside his brother three deep—sharp, appreciative inhale from Sam—just to make sure he’s relaxed enough, before _finally_ turning his attentions to his own dick. Using the excuse of slicking up to grant himself some of the friction he’s been dying for. His ass throbs, residual ache from last night, and Dean steadfastly ignores it.

Sam collapses back flat on the bed at the inattention, spreads his own thighs wide—hell of a fucking show—and begs, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” And holy Jesus fuck, Dean’s only human.

He slinks back over his brother, hooks his shoulders under his knees, and lines them up without even glancing down—why bother when he’s got the rest of Sam to look at instead? Deep furrow of his brow as he drops his hands from his legs to clutch at the pillows up near his head, thick bulge of his biceps at the movement. Wet, open mouth, obscenely pink against the white line of his lower teeth. The soft skin of his jaw, sharp angle of the bone flexing underneath as he breathes.

Dean latches his own mouth onto the long stretch of his brother’s neck, cords bunching tight under his tongue as he blissfully slides in. Sweltering grip around his iron-hard cock as Sam’s body welcomes him home. He presses in as far as he can physically go, heavy balls mashed tight against his brother’s ass, and Sam lets out a strangled cry that sounds like Dean feels. _Fuck_. He swallows back an embarrassing noise of his own, lets Sam adjust to the feel of him, before dragging back along those soft, tight walls again.

“God, yes,” Sam says the instant he starts pulling back, like he’s smack dab in the friggin’ throes of pleasure. Which is great and all, but they’re really just getting started. Whatever. Maybe Sam’s just excited. Dean schools his expression and repositions Sam’s leg a little higher up on his shoulder to shift angles, barely thrusting back in at all when Sam slams his eyes shut and clenches down around him again. “ _Yes_ ,” he gasps, “just like that,” and Dean knows for a fucking fact that he hadn’t come anywhere near his brother’s sweet spot. He fights back the gnawing suspicion trying to creep up on him and shoots off a rough, experimental thrust, off-target and intentionally amateurish. “So good, Dean,” Sam moans like a PG-13 hooker, and Dean suddenly sees _red_.

Because he’s doing it on purpose, the absolute _fucker_. Dean has been inside of his brother hundreds of times in at least thirty-four different states. He knows every single panted gasp and low groan and strangled warble of pleasure that Sam is capable of making. He knows what he sounds like when he’s strung-out with arousal and his eyes are glazed over and he’s too far gone to rein in his babbling. This is not that.

Sam is faking it like the lying, overly perceptive asshole he is.

Well—he’s not _faking_ -faking it. The massive, straining hard-on twitching and drooling against his abs is proof enough of that. But he’s been moaning a little too loud the whole time, throwing his head back a shade too dramatically. He’s putting on a damn _show_ , overcompensating for Dean’s earlier outburst.

Dean could put an end to this right now. He could cuss Sam out for being a patronizing dick and throw his jeans back on and go for a fucking drive until his own junk finally got the message and calmed down. He could cling to the same bad mood and continue just as pissy tomorrow as he was this morning…but Sam wouldn’t deserve that. He wouldn’t even really understand why. It’s not his brother’s fault that Dean’s chosen _now_ of all times to have a completely unwarranted nervous breakdown. Sam’s just trying to fix it in his own shitty, incredibly insulting little way.

“Dean?” Sam questions tentatively, and that’s what makes him realize he’s stilled his hips. Dean doesn’t move, every muscle locked up like a goddamn statue, and Sam sucks in a shallow breath from underneath him. His brother’s gaze darts over his own, doesn’t really settle. Too nervous at being caught out.

“You think I’m a goddamn idiot?” he asks quietly.

Sam crumples in on himself like he’d shouted. “I just thought—”

“Don’t,” Dean says.

Sam nods, doesn’t quite apologize even though he clearly wants to. “I just—” He lets out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s important to you,” he says, much more subdued.

Dean tries not to focus on the ridiculousness of the fact that’s he still _inside_ of the dude he’s currently bickering with. Or the fact that Sam’s uncomfortable shifting is keeping them both hard. “What is?”

But his brother doesn’t say it, whatever it is.

It’s infuriating as all get-out. “Sam, I don’t need you to—” The words fall apart on Dean as he’s forming them, and he has to take a second to regroup. “I don’t _want_ you to…”

“Okay,” Sam says, cutting him off before he’s forced to finish. Simple and understanding. Like it’s that easy.

Dean releases the remainder of his breath, wind thoroughly taken out of his sails. “Okay?” he echoes, a little skeptical himself.

Sam smiles at him, soft and apologetic. “Okay,” he says again. And then Sam slides his legs from Dean’s shoulders, locks them around his waist, and flips the both of them in one easy move. Dean’s back hits the mattress with a muffled thump and Sam’s concentrated weight settles on top of him, comforting and familiar. He’d never even slipped out of his brother’s ass.

“You practice that?” he asks dryly, and Sam answers with a rock of his hips that shuts Dean up immediately. “ _Fuck_ ,” he lets out on a quiet breath, ignoring the subtle laughter from Sam.

And this, _this_ is right. This is how it should be.

His brother immediately starts up and maintains a hard, fast rhythm, getting the both of them panting and sweating in no time. Sam’s hands planted heavy on his chest, and his entire body shudders when Dean tilts his hips up to spear him deeper on the descent. Perfect fucking aim every time because this is the one thing he _knows_ he can do right, and his ego doesn’t need Sam throwing him any unnecessary bones. Dean slides his own hands up his brother’s sides, soft scrape of callouses against the smooth skin, until he can tease at both dusky nipples. Sam _thrums_ under his touch, Dean plucking at his strings like he’s a vintage Stratocaster. He was never really able to pick up the guitar as quick as he’d have liked, despite Robin’s best attempts at tutoring, but he can play his brother. He’s freaking _Hendrix_ when it comes to that.

Dean spreads his hands further back, gets a strong, solid grip around his ribcage, and Sam lets out a beautiful little sigh at the feel of it. Real, this time. No more of that girly, ‘faking it’ bullshit.

“ _Dean_ ,” he forces out, strangled and gorgeous.

“Right here, baby,” Dean whispers back.

Sam presses his lips together tight, drops his head until the tendrils of his damp hair start tickling against Dean’s chin. He swipes them out of the way, continues the motion until he’s got his brother’s heated cheek cradled in one palm. Beautiful rosy flush spreading beneath the skin, all the way down to his collarbones.

“Good?” Dean asks on a groan—hitch of Sam’s hips to thank for that one—because in the aftermath of his brother’s dumb little stunt, he has to know for sure.

“So good,” Sam pants out in return. “I mean it, Dean.” He slams his eyes shut, dopey grin stretching wide. “ _Fuck_.”

Sam leans into the hold Dean’s got on his face, lets him take some of the weight, and trails his own hands down to scrape faint lines across his chest and tweak at Dean’s nipples. Already a dark pink and sensitive from the arousal coursing through his veins. Dean chokes out a breathy sound, high and tremulous at the sharp pinch of his brother’s fingers, and a bolt of humiliation lances through him. He frowns, pokes at the feeling like a sore tooth because this kinda thing’s never bothered him before— _“But Daddy’s little girl,” Alastair sneers, taunting and laughing like he isn’t the one helpless and strapped to an iron star, like he’s still in control, like they’re still in the Pit, “he broke. He broke in thirty.”_ —Dean sucks in a sharp inhale, lost in the flood of the demon’s cruelly lilting words— _“Just not the man your daddy wanted you to be, huh, Dean?”_

He snaps his hands down to cover Sam’s, gripping tight and forcefully redirecting them up where they were before, but his brother just happily plants his weight back on his shoulders, none the wiser. Sam pulls his legs in snug against his sides and uses the leverage to ride him more vigorously, like he thinks _that’s_ what Dean was after. Like Dean’s sudden shaking is just a side-effect of the intense sex. Good. He ain’t gonna correct him.

Dean intentionally fixes all of his attention on his brother. The heated, unintelligible mumbling falling from his kiss-bruised lips. Strong ropes of muscle rippling under his golden skin as he fucks himself stupid on Dean’s stiff cock. Light sheen of sweat glistening in the strips of late afternoon light that manage to make it past the blinds. Dean drowns himself in the feel of Sam and lets his blinders-on, pinprick focus narrow his vision until there’s no room for anything that isn’t the annoyingly gorgeous fucker wringing out every last drop of pleasure from both of their aching bodies.

Dean reaches out to close his hand around the blood-warm erection bobbing in front of him and Sam doesn’t shoo him away this time. Just moans like Dean’s rough-chapped palm is the best thing he’s ever felt. Flick of his thumb over the head gliding smoothly into a twist-pull down the shaft and then back again. Sweat and his brother’s own pre-come easing the way. Sam garbles out a wrecked sound that might be Dean’s name or maybe even some profanity-laced prayer, and then he’s clenching down around him, his ass practically _strangling_ his dick, fingers clawing into Dean’s chest so fiercely it’s gonna look like a ghost went for his heart once the bruises bloom. Dean never lets up for a second, keeps jacking him to the exact same rhythm until Sam’s coming—one, two, three long lines of white arcing high over Dean’s torso. Each pulsing spurt shooting off a little weaker each time until his brother’s completely wrung-out. He collapses on top of him the second he’s spent, rubbing himself up against every bit of warm skin in reach, and paying no mind at all to the sticky-wet jizz he’s now smearing between their abdomens.

 _Jesus fuck_ , Dean couldn’t care less at the moment either. He wraps Sam up in his arms and chases his own orgasm, free to focus on his screamingly impatient dick now that his little brother’s been taken care of. Sam gives him everything he needs though—he always does—quivering aftershocks of his inner muscles sucking Dean’s release straight out of his cock, and when he follows him over that cliff, it’s a goddamn pleasure. Spilling deep and possessive into the slick-tight channel of his body. The closeness and the euphoria washing over Dean in waves, clear and easy, without any dark guilt or shame to twist up his gut. No violent bouts of self-hatred. No urge to drink himself into a coma. Just ecstasy and heat and  _Sam_. Above him and against him and all around him so he can’t breathe without getting a lungful of his sweat. The warm, musky scent of his skin. The gentler hovering aroma of his soap or deodorant or whatever other fancy froufrou shit his brother uses to doll himself up.

Dean pulls in a deep inhale and then slumps back himself, resting his face against the side of Sam’s head. He smiles at the responding sound of exhausted satisfaction. It’s better this way by a mile. _It’s not even close to as good._ His ass throbs again—every single cell in his body shooting out through his dick tends to get most of his lesser-used muscles twitching pleasantly, but Dean shoves away the reminder. He does let Sam drape bonelessly over him for another minute or two before the niggling awareness of the assorted body fluids currently coating his person starts to make itself known.

“Dude, c’mon,” he says with a sharp nudge to his brother’s side. He needs to brush his teeth until his mouth tastes less like ass. He needs to brush his teeth and then _shower_ , in that order.

Sam only hesitates for a moment. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

Dean ignores the unexpected pang of regret when Sam obediently rolls off of him, but he does watch him make the short trek to the unoccupied bed. Flushed and sex-mussed and beautiful. He falls back flat onto the comforter, arms spread-eagle, and Dean doesn’t even bitch at him about dirtying up both beds with his lazy hippie hygiene.

“Thanks,” he says, but it comes out a little weird. Luckily, Sam’s too fucked-out to notice.

Dean drags himself to the bathroom before he can do something stupid like slip beneath his brother’s sheets and stay there.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They have one night left, and Dean kind of feels like bashing his head against a wall.

They have one night left, and Dean feels even more like tying his brother to a chair and just beating off on top of him so neither Sam nor his own pathetic desires can drag him even deeper into this pit of hopelessness he’s already struggling to crawl out of.

That ever-present itch had started making itself known again sometime around sundown, tickling up between his shoulder blades and reminding him how very much he’d like to get his rocks off one final time before they have to hole back up at Bobby’s for who knows how long. Round their marathon smut weekend out right. Last chance.

The best—or worst—part is that Sam seems just as raring to go as he is, a bit of a surprise considering his brother’s stupid camel libido, and Dean’s not sure whether he should feel excited or threatened by Sam’s newfound appetites. Maybe all that soulless poon-tang had reminded his body how much fun sex actually is, even if his wet blanket consciousness is still trailing behind in the dark. Maybe them finally being back together after so long has Sam so revved-up that he just can’t get enough of him. Dean fights off a self-satisfied smirk and tries not to dwell on how much he’d like to believe it’s the second one.

He doubts Sam would actually go for the chair thing though. His brother hasn’t really been much of a team player today. Dean had made it explicitly clear that they weren’t supposed to leave the room the whole time they were here, because what’s the point of a marathon fuckfest if you go out and run friggin’ _errands_ in the middle of it? But Sam had slipped out for a run early this morning and then once again in the afternoon to pick them up some weirdo health-food crap for lunch that he had to absolutely _drown_ in hot sauce to get it edible enough to force down.

Dean, for his part—the only damn member of this family who actually plays fair—had scarcely gotten up from his bed all weekend and it’s got him feeling lazy and decadent in the best way. They hadn’t even skimmed the net for a hunt or anything. Three whole days of sex and TV and take-out and Dean can’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself this much time off. The desperately-needed vacation so relaxing that it’s actually worth the slight niggle of guilt chewing away at the back of his brain, reminding him how many people might have gotten their hearts ripped out by a werewolf—or maybe something more exotic, the typical monsters _have_ been getting weird lately—while he and Sam were doing the horizontal mambo. Whatever. They’re _delegating_. Bobby’s working on that whole Purgatory ‘Mother of Dragons’ bullshit, and he’d have called if he found anything worth looking into. That’s the biggest fish to fry right now.

He watches his brother stride back and forth across the small room, powerful, broad shoulders tapering into that tight, perky little ass of his. Pressing taut against the seat of his jeans as he occasionally bends over to finish up the last of their packing. They’re planning on heading out early tomorrow. Try and get a jump on whatever research Bobby wasn’t able to finish on his own. Dean distractedly adjusts his dick in his own jeans, squeezes a little harder than he needs to just to get himself worked up. The trick is gonna be pulling off a replay of yesterday afternoon without Sam realizing anything’s amiss. _The trick is gonna be getting his own desires on board when so much of him is craving something else._

“Something on your mind?” Sam tosses at him over his shoulder, casual and teasing. He must have caught him staring. Must have caught the placement of Dean’s hand too, so he doesn’t move it.

Dean shifts back on the bed just far enough to make it obvious he’s interested, intentionally frames his fingers around the growing bulge pressing against his fly. “Why don’t you tell me?” He sets his voice to low, adding just a hint of the gravel-roughness that gets his brother all weak-kneed for him. Works like a goddamn charm too. Always does.

Sam drops the last t-shirt he was holding to curl his fingers against his palms, breathing picking up just a little as his skin gets hot. “I think maybe you see something you like,” he says, like silk and sin, quickly eating up the distance between them. Moving like a goddamn predator. All sleek, strong muscle. “I think you might even want things to get a little rough,” Sam whispers hotly. Zero to sixty in point two seconds, same as always. “Want me to grab you by your crossed wrists. Hold you down. Fuck you breathless.”

Shit. _Shit, shit shit._ He urgently ignores both the responding jolt of his cock and the queasy swoop in the pit of his stomach. “Uh, I just…” Dean instantly locks down any hint of fight-or-flight. Barely manages to stop himself from scrabbling away this time. “You sure that’s the direction you wanna take things tonight?” he asks, trying for cool and wishing he didn’t sound so much like a spineless wimp instead.

Sam falters right before he actually makes skin contact, pulls back, frowning, like Dean’s ruined all the momentum. Or maybe it’s just ‘cause he thought his little idiotic performance last night had fixed everything. “Thought we were trading off?” he says carefully. More of a leading statement than a question. Stupid friggin’ lawyer bullshit, making it sound like he’s asking when really he’s telling.

“’Course you did,” Dean mutters under his breath, most of him hoping it was too low for his brother to catch. He swallows hard and pushes back into Sam’s space. Recoups some of his metaphorical and literal ground. He could just come out with it. Lay it all out, blunt and selfish. _“I wanna go back to the way it was before.”_ But then he’ll have to explain why—no way his therapist-wannabe brother would let him off the hook without some semblance of a reason—and Dean can’t say a goddamn honest thing about it without also insulting Sam. Sam, who seems to love writhing on a cock just as much as he does, only without all the fucked-up self-loathing that Dean can’t shake. It’s almost _more_ infuriating how little he seems to care in contrast. Like Dean’s the only one with issues here.

Except—clearly, that’s _exactly_ what’s going on and Sam’s comparative nonchalance is driving him fucking crazy.

So Dean takes the coward’s way out instead. “Y’know,” he says, fake as all get-out, “I actually think I’m kinda beat. Maybe we should just forget about the whole sex thing for tonight.”

His brother fixes him with a long look of completely understandable confusion. “Wait… _what?”_ he asks once his tongue starts working again. He looks like steam is about to come shooting out of his ears from his brain overheating. “Isn’t that, like, the entire reason we’re here?” Sam silently opens and closes his mouth a couple times, blinks a little as he tries to figure him out. “I mean, we don’t have to, but— _You’re_ the one who said—” He cuts himself off with a sigh of frustration and unfolds himself back up to standing. “So, wait…do you wanna just head back to Bobby’s?”

No, he fucking _doesn’t_ , but he doesn’t want Sam’s baseball bat of a dick up his ass either. _Lies upon lies upon lies._ Dean scratches a hand over the back of his head. “I’m just not in the mood, man.”

Sam glances down at Dean’s still-hard cock tenting the front of his jeans, up to the way Dean won’t quite meet his eyes. Then he lets out a long, low breath as the truth slowly dawns on him. “…Like you weren’t in the mood yesterday morning?” he asks rigidly, accusation laced with every single bit of subtext that Dean thought he wasn’t gonna bring up. “Or the night before that?”

God, way to make him sound like some kinda prudish cold fish. And yes, thank you, Dean is very aware of the irony that _Sam’s_ the one who’s been basically initiating the sex this entire weekend. He doesn’t want to think about the implications of that either. Plus, Dean hadn’t even _said_ anything the night before last. His brother wasn’t supposed to pick up on any of that.

But Sam isn’t done yet. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, muscles in his arms locked unmoving as he tries to keep the sudden flare of ire in check. “Like you suddenly aren’t in the mood _only_ when I’m the one pitching?” he adds darkly. “Or are we not supposed to talk about that?”

Dean willfully shoves down the sudden rush of panic. _He knows._ He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and tries to sound as unaffected as possible. “Sam, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please,” his brother scoffs. “There’s a clear common denominator here, Dean.” Sam carries himself stiff for another silent minute, then finally lets his tension go on a defeated sigh.  Lets fly with that sad puppy-dog expression Dean can’t ever hold out against. _Cheater_. “Seriously, dude,” he says, “what is it? Is this, like, an anti- _gay_ thing or—?”

“ _Jesus_ , Sam,” Dean interrupts him, legitimately insulted. “I ain’t some bigoted caveman. You actually think I give a shit about something like that?”

“Then _what?”_ Sam asks in wild exasperation, looking like he’s about to tug his own goddamn hair out. “Dean. Seriously. _What?_ Is it some stupid macho bullshit? You’re afraid I’m gonna think you’re a girl or something?” He’d clearly meant it as ridiculous, impossible sarcasm, but Dean’s violent flinch at the word gives him away before he can wrangle back his stupid knee-jerk reaction— _he knows, he knows, he knows_ —and Sam’s jaw drops open like a fucking cartoon character.

They both stare at each other for way too long a moment. Dean in helpless terror at being caught out, Sam in swiftly mounting anger.

“ _Dean_ ,” he says in condescending disbelief. “Are you— That’s the stupidest— Is _that_ what you think of me?” he finally spits out. He lashes an arm out in unrestrained indignation, nearly puts an elbow straight through the TV. “Like _I’m_ some sexist pig?” It sounds fucking ludicrous when he says it out loud like that. Like his overly sensitive, overly PC brother could ever be ‘that’ guy. Sam gets shy about using gendered slurs in front of freaking _demons_. “Why the fuck would I even think that, Dean?” he asks, eyes flashing dangerous as a thunderstorm. Except, he’s not really asking. His tone is far too knowing for that. Too cagey. “What, ‘cause the _girl_ is the one who’s supposed to take it up the ass? And that’s me, right? That’s your issue with this.” Sam angrily paces a few steps away. Like he can’t even stand to be within spitting distance of him right now. “It’s that _I’m_ the one forgetting my place solely because I thought we could be fair about this,” he says. “No, it’s my fault, really, for expecting you to handle this like a goddamn adult!”

Dean can’t— He can’t do this right now. Sam wasn’t supposed to get pissed. Sam wasn’t supposed to figure him out intricately enough to _get_ pissed. There’s too much air in here, or not enough maybe, and Dean’s head starts to swim. He can’t think past the wave of thick resentment his brother’s launching at him. Can’t form a single thought in his own defense.

“I’m not a goddamn _woman_ , Dean,” Sam hisses, spinning on his heel to get back in his face. “And if you can’t fuck me without realizing that, then you’re not gonna have much use for your dick _at_ _all_ where I’m involved!”

The threat hits him square. Leaves his lungs nerveless, desperate for the oxygen that he suddenly can’t pull in. And Dean knows, he _knows_ Sam didn’t mean anything at all by it, but he still has to swallow back against the _tooclosetoopainfultooimmediate_ memories his brother’s words have inadvertently uprooted. Too raw and helpless in the moment to shove them back down once they start tearing across his mind’s— _Cold eyes and even colder fingers, clawed and spindly and not-quite-human, as they’d prick across his skin at a glacial fucking pace. Threatening, as they measured out all of his vulnerable places; the hollow of his eye, the arch of his foot, the crease of his groin. The thick, terrifying apprehension almost worse than the actual act itself—but **not** worse, never **actually** worse..._

_And then the lightning slash of Alastair’s sharpest blade—screaming raw through the blood and the screaming and the blood—cleaving clean through the root of his cock. The horror of it so much worse than the pain. Unmanning him in an instant. Worst fucking thing Dean could’ve ever imagined—well, **before** , at least—the work of a disinterested second. Because that’s all he’s worth._

_Or, if Dean was unlucky enough for it to be one of **those** days, the knife carving gory ribbons around the base instead. Slower. More flirtatious. His mentor stretching the agony out like the expert he was. Like a conductor weaving the separate strains of pain and dissonance into an intricate symphony of torture. Alastair’s scalpel circling around and around his flesh for a protracted eternity, the blade corkscrewing in deeper each time, until the demon could finally just pull the entire thing free with one unceasing tug. One quick yank snapping the remaining tendrils of skin and sinew to the soundtrack of Dean’s ragged sobs. _

_“So much easier now that that’s out of the way,” he’d purr. That nauseating, sibilant lisp poured into the shell of his ear. Same as every session. “Because if we’re going to be frank,” Alastair would toss down to him, light and cordial like they’re discussing the weather, “—and I do think we should be frank, Dean—you don’t really need it, do you?” Then he’d turn, flinging the dead weight of what-used-to-be his dick into the parts bowl. First blood. Every single time. Not that it really mattered though. It would be there again by tomorrow. It’d grow back just so they could tear it off one more time. “You know why we have to handle this bit at the beginning, don’t you, Dean?” his teacher would always ask. Rhetorical question. Dean knows the answer even as Alastair leans down to recite it for the thousandth time, the point of his scalpel slipping in between Dean’s ribs until he can’t breathe with the new pain. “Because a cock isn’t something that a little girl needs.” The demon would wait then, poised and expectant, for Dean to nod in acceptance before he’d mercifully yank the skewer back out from his side. Alastair would smile just the slightest bit at Dean’s compliance, always the exact same curve of his ragged, bleeding mouth._

_And then he’d start in on his fingers._

“Dean.”

Sam is even closer into his space when Dean flickers back to awareness, wide-eyed and pale and gently encircling his arms in his hands. It’s that fucking _look_ again. Like he thinks Dean is so fragile he might just break.

“What?” Dean spits out, terse and too caustic. He forcibly shakes his brother off of him. “I’m fine. What?”

Sam hesitantly, gradually leans back to a reasonable distance, any hint of his earlier anger completely dissipated by now. Steam cooling on a snowy day. “What’s going on with you?” he asks carefully. Caught somewhere between a whisper and actual words. Like he’s legitimately afraid of the possible answer. “Is it something—” Dean catches a flash of the tip of his tongue as he apprehensively swipes it over his lips. Sam drops his eyes to the floor, swallows hard enough that Dean can see the bob of his throat. “Is it…something I can’t remember? Something I did when I was soulless?”

The hopeless way the question comes out, the terrified way Sam glances up at him like he doesn’t actually want to know, breaks his fucking heart. And Dean’s own resentment fades just as fast. “ _Christ_ , sweetheart,” he lets out on a breath. “Of course not.”

“I hurt you,” Sam says, and his voice is so small Dean can barely hear him.

“It wasn’t _you_ , Sam,” he says roughly. “How many times are we gonna have to have this goddamn conversation?”

His brother scrubs a hand over his eyes, no actual moisture to wipe away, just that initial burning itch. “Then what’s wrong?” he pouts, stubborn as a fucking jackass.

Dean gives up any semblance of a backbone. Too tired to pretend anymore. He falls back onto his bed and exhaustedly flings his own arms over his face, boots still flat on the carpeted floor. “It isn’t about you, Sam.”

“ _Great_ ,” he says tightly. “Then what is it?”

“Nothing. Just let it go.”

Sam scoots in a little closer, drops down to his knees so he can crouch in between Dean’s spread legs. “Dean, I can’t— It’s affecting us. _Us_ ,” he repeats, as if Dean didn’t catch what Sam was getting at the first time. If his little brother is dumb enough to push the envelope any farther than ‘us’, Dean’s gonna sock him in the jaw. Tears or no. Sam actually called it a ‘romantic relationship’ once, years ago. To his goddamn _face_.

But something hot and tight has lodged itself in right in the middle of Dean’s throat. He couldn’t respond even if he wanted to.

Sam slips his giant hands over Dean’s jean-clad knees, worries at the inseam a little with his thumbs. “I can’t fix it if I don’t understand what you want me to do,” he says sadly. “Why won’t you just fucking _talk_ to me?”

Dean’s cock throbs weakly at his brother’s touch, warmth bleeding in through the denim. Great, now he’s gonna get freaking blue balls too. Though he’s not sure which of them his dick is more mad at. And god, this is even worse than if Sam _was_ still pissed at him. His baby brother fussing over him, all worried and gentle. Like _he’s_ the one who needs to be taken care of. It makes Dean want to put his fist through the fucking headboard.

Sam tries his best anyway, faced with Dean’s stony silence. Randomly plucking guesses out of thin air. “Do you just…?” He lets out a breath and scooches in a little closer, knees knocking against the foot of the bed. “Do you not like catching? Because that’s fine, dude. _Really_. We can go back to the way it was.” Sam ducks his head to try and meet his gaze, but Dean’s still got an arm thrown over his eyes. Can only glimpse his brother’s movement in his peripheral. “Dean, I don’t _care_. I don’t care at all.” He drops his forehead to rest heavily against his leg. “I just wanna be with you,” he mumbles into the coarse fabric, face smushed against Dean’s thigh. “That’s all I want.” His breath warms the area, hot and moist, and Dean’s dick gives one last valiant effort to remain erect.

There it is. His out. In one fell swoop, Sam has just fixed everything he’s been railing against the last few days. The last few months. _The last few years._ And all Dean had to do to get it was to throw a childish tantrum.

…But what’s gonna happen when the tight, hot clutch of Sam’s body isn’t enough anymore? What’s gonna happen when that ache deep inside of Dean and that miserable yearning to be touched, to be _filled_ , doesn’t go away? When it gets worse? What if, without Sam, the need gets so bad that he’s willing to let someone else… _anyone else_ …use him the same way? The thought curdles his stomach, sends a wave of terrified nausea through him so fast Dean has to tighten his throat so he doesn’t shove his brother away and race for that little, beige bathroom again.

He digs his fingernails into his palm, bright sting of pain, feels the muscles of his forearm clench and release against his skull. “I can’t—” Dean forces out, choked-off whisper. Pathetic. _Weak_. “I like it.” Second worst thing he’s ever admitted, next to what he’d done in Hell. Then, suddenly, there’s a sharp, bitter urge to actually laugh. Both failures he’d confessed to Sam— _only_ to Sam—Dean realizes a little ironically. Wonder what that means.

His brother doesn’t respond the way he expects him to. Doesn’t push away from him in disgust or light up in savage delight at the thought of subjugating him, now that he knows how easy Dean would make it for him. So effortless to smother down the intangible fragments that make him who he is and forcibly shape him into something else instead, something simpler, Dean submitting so readily— _into the new animal Alastair had carved him into. Completely broken in only thirty years. Hanging on his torturer’s every word, his every instruction. Obsequious. Sadistic. **Weak**._

Sam smiles against his thigh, and Dean snaps back to reality at his brother’s exhausted little chuckle. “Uh, okay then, _duh_ , Dean,” he says in amused frustration, “that’s a good thing.” He shifts his head a little until only his cheek is pressing against his leg, glances up at him now that Dean isn’t hiding his face anymore. Hazel eyes wide and foxlike and glittering. There are entire universes swirling behind his little brother’s gaze. “If that’s not the issue, then what is it?”

Dean steadies his breathing a little, shifts up to one elbow and reaches out to stroke a thumb over one of Sammy’s ridiculous sideburns. Hates himself for a flicker of an eternity for thinking _that_ of Sam, even for a moment. They aren’t fighting any more, petty cage match replaced by this mellow, intimate calm that’s seemingly drifted down around them. His brother attentive and willing to listen. But it still doesn’t help. Because as hard as Sam’s trying, he doesn’t understand. He couldn’t _possibly_ understand. Not ever. A brief whisper about Sam’s own time in the Cage flits through his mind, but Dean rips it away just as quickly. Death’s wall is barely holding as is. No way in _literal Hell_ is he gonna risk his brother’s safety and sanity on just the slim chance of Sam maybe empathizing.

“Some things are just complicated,” Dean says. And it’s true, but it’s also an obvious sidestep of the issue, and his brother gets an annoyed, pinched look on his face the exact way Dean knew he would. “I’m fine, Sammy,” he lies. “Really, I am.”

Because no matter what Dean’s worthless body wants, it’s more important that Sam can rely on him. He’s spent every waking minute of his life since he was four years old building up a solid emotional structure for Sam to cling to. A massive rock to protect him from the winds. A secure port in any storm. That kind of sacrifice necessitates Sam viewing him a certain way—and face-down, ass-up, and whimpering is _not_ what Dean’s talking about. Hell, he’s probably already irrevocably damaged their relationship—yes, fine, he said it, fuck you, Sam—by the few times he’s allowed it already. He can’t have his little brother not being able to trust that he can take care of him. He can’t have him scared, desperate, depending on Dean to keep him safe, and then flash back to an image of him on all fours and begging to be fucked. Exposed. Needy.

It’s a fucking, what’s it called?— _paradigm shift_. And it always changes things, no matter how much people promise it won’t.

Sam stirs against his leg, gathers himself back up to sitting and pulls Dean out of his bitter musings. “You flinched,” he says, subdued and solemn. “Earlier, when I said ‘girl’.” ‘Cause god forbid Sam could ever just let something go without picking it apart first. “But then you also said that you like the sex.”

Dean shuffles away from his brother’s body heat. He can already imagine what conclusions Sam’s gonna come to in a minute. Just as tetchy and pissed as he was half an hour ago. _“If Dean thinks that way about himself, then how does he view me?”_ And Dean knows it’s unfair, okay? He knows it’s hypocritical and shitty and whatever else it probably also is, but he can’t help it. He can’t _logic_ the self-hatred away. Or the fear.

“Sam,” he warns, dark and tense, “drop it.”

But Sam doesn’t relent. Same way he never does. Dog with a goddamn bone. He just watches him for a long while, all the complex mysteries of Dean’s psyche clicking and twisting and unlocking behind those multicolored eyes.

Of all the things Dean’s expecting his brother to spit out, what actually comes from his mouth next isn’t one of them.

“I changed my mind,” Sam says. Flat, blunt, and brutal.

Dean just blinks at him in shock for a moment, and then he takes the bait like a damn sucker. “Changed your mind about what?”

Sam shifts up to his heels—his legs probably asleep by now—gets his hands braced on the bed and crawls up after Dean. “I need you to do this for me,” he explains, creeping steadily forward until he’s hovering over him on his hands and knees. Boxing him in. Dean flat on his back and vulnerable, no exit without physically wrestling his two hundred pound brother off of him. “I need you to let me fuck you.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit. “I’m sorry,” he says, low and careful, _“what?”_

“You heard me.”

Dean expects to feel caged-in and trapped at the insane statement his brother’s just made, readies himself for that sickly prickle of claustrophobia to start gnawing away at him, but instead all he feels is a surprising lightness. Sammy needs him. Sammy needs something _from_ him and that’s always been so laughably easy to provide.

Sam must see something encouraging in his eyes because he drops down a little more until they’re touching, torsos to ankles. Practically laying on top of him from the waist down. His brother’s body rising and falling every time Dean breathes. “I need you to switch off with me sometimes—just sometimes,” he clarifies quickly. “Only when you feel up to it.” Sam chews at his bottom lip for a bit, thoughts whirring a mile a minute through that overdeveloped brain of his. “And I need you to like it,” he says shrewdly. “It’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t like it. So you need to make yourself like it. For me.”

It’s too obvious what he’s playing at. Hell, it’s pedantic and it’s clumsy and it’s aggravating, but something in Dean cracks open at the allowance. At the excuse. Fake as it is. All the pressure, the responsibility to play his part just up and evaporates—no, it doesn’t evaporate, it _shifts_. ‘Don’t ever expose your soft underbelly’ becomes ‘take care of Sammy’ and Dean can do that easy as anything. He’s been doing it his whole life, after all. It’s his reason for goddamn being.

Dean swallows audibly. Tries to get his voice to sound even. “To make you feel good.”

Sam smiles, bright as sunshine, at the capitulation. The little shit always did like winning. “Yeah, Dean,” he says softly. “To make me feel good.”

“You need it,” Dean breathes out, testing the waters, and it isn’t exactly a question. He can’t quite drum up the strength to make it a question.

His brother traces a couple of slender fingers along his hairline. “Do I?”

“Yeah, I— Yeah.”

“Then yeah,” Sam says, dipping his head down to rest their foreheads together. “I need it from you. Right now. I really  _really_ need it.”

Dean’s cock twitches right back up to interested at the faux begging, or maybe just the breathy timbre of his brother’s voice. Either way, it’s the second time in less than an hour. Shit. He’s gonna have a whopper of a headache later, but this is worth it. “You need it,” Dean repeats, bringing his own hands up to grip at the hard muscle of Sam’s back.

Sam nods against his skin. “I do. Please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it. Dean thinks he might carve his own heart out of his chest if Sam said please.

He strips his own flannel off, then the undershirt, jostling Sam on top of him with every move he makes. Every sigh and twist and breath setting a fire under his skin wherever they’re flush. Bucking and grinding together until his brother’s just as hard as he is, digging an invisible brand into his hip that Dean wants to keep forever. Sam takes over for his lower half, unbuckling his belt one-handed while his other is still occupied tracing the angles of his face. Clumsier now though, dipping down to Dean’s lips on every other pass-by. He gets his jeans caught around the shoes Dean’s still wearing, and then takes a little time-out to tear off his own shirts before impatiently yanking his boots off without even unlacing them all the way.

Dean reaches up to palm at his brother through his jeans, just firm enough to get Sam groaning at the touch before inching back to tease at his balls. “ _Fuck_ , Dean,” he gasps, eyes slammed shut so he can really feel it. And it would be a beautiful thing indeed if it wasn’t suddenly a stark-cold reminder of what they’re heading toward. _Sam needs this_ —he repeats to himself. Only half a lie.

It’s still a little stilted, a little nerve-wracking, being an active participant in his own humiliation like this. _You’re being an idiot_ —a voice that sounds eerily like Sam rings through his head. It’s a welcome relief, really. Dean would take his brother haunting his thoughts over anyone else any day. But Sam’s right—or, whatever— _fake_ -Sam’s right and Dean focuses on his brother instead. Just like he did yesterday. Just like he does whenever he gets the slightest sliver of a chance. Sam’s wide mouth stretched tight over his jaw, almost a smile. That massive fucking chest heaving with the way he’s panting for more breath. So warm and bare and alive. And _Dean’s_ the one doing that to him. Every moan of pleasure, every wriggle in an attempt for more skin contact. That’s because of him.

His heart’s still pounding against the empty drum of his chest, more out of dread than anticipation, but Dean forces through the discomfort to fumble with Sam’s fly. He gets the button undone and the zip down before his brother pulls away to do it himself, hopping on one foot for a little bit as he kicks himself free of the heavy denim. It’s adorable, and Dean fixates on that instead of the panic running through his veins.

Sam’s back with the lube faster than he can think, infinite stretch of tan, naked skin, burning so hot with desire that _Dean_ starts to sweat. He reaches for that long, mouth-watering cock just as Sam slicks up his own fingers in preparation. Dean curls his fingers like an expert, twists his wrist the same, gets Sam turned-on enough that he starts dripping pre-come like a busted pipe. He lets it soak his hand, scent of bitter salt in the air making Dean’s dick jerk in response, and he pumps his brother slick and skillful. Doesn’t need the lube that Sam is reaching further back with, leaving cool, sticky trails against his overheated skin. Traipsing closer and closer to—He can do this.  _Sam needs it._

His brother shoves in three eager fingers right away— _he’s still mostly open from the last time, his body greedy and sucking and ready for Sam like a fucking bitch in heat_ —lightning flash of pain at the stretch just like always and Dean can do this. This is the easy part. He can take his punishment. Accept what he deserves for wanting this. He’s so good at that by now. Best of the best, really. Alastair taught him so well in so many disciplines. But he knows he can’t ever give voice to the whole truth of it or Sam will stop. Sam will get that heart-wrenchingly distraught look on his face, horrified at himself, and he’ll never touch Dean roughly again. Only careful, delicate eyelash-whispers from there on out, soft and loving and syrupy-sweet, leaving them both unsatisfied…and then Dean will just be left with the weakness of liking it. The disgusting reminder of how pitiful he is without any of the pain to slice through the guilt. To make his bones ache until he can’t think about anything else and his mind goes mercifully blank.

Sam rips his fingers away with an obscene squelch of lube and then he’s lining them up fast, too fast, shoving Dean’s knees up and spreading his legs so he can get at the heat of him. Dean grits his teeth through it—blessed agony spiking up his spine like he’s being split in two—no sound escaping at all, fighting back the burning sensation at the corners of his eyes through sheer willpower. He takes it like a man.

And then Sam is inside him. Breathing. Every muscle flexed tense. His weight practically surrounding him, embracing him warm and tight as he slowly twines his arms around his back like creeping vines and roots Dean into place. No escape from this.

_He can do this. Sam needs it._

Sam pants in the stillness for a moment, letting them both get used to the sensation. Slight trembles shivering up his spine as Dean helplessly clenches and unclenches around him. Usually by now he’d be pounding into Dean like both of their lives depended on it, but he’s clearly going slow. Careful. Holding back.

Another wave of loathing swoops through Dean’s gut at the kiddie gloves.

“Are you—?” Sam awkwardly cuts himself off. Seems to remember how he’s supposed to be playing this. He sets his jaw. Looks him straight in the eyes and comes to a decision. Roleplaying the same confident assuredness that came to him so naturally when that soulless dick was piloting his meatsuit. Dean wonders how he would feel about that if he knew. “Hands behind your head,” his brother instructs, and Dean obeys. Fingers linked behind his skull, leaving him on display. “You’re gonna enjoy this for me, right?” Sam reminds him, telling not asking, just like before.

And Dean nods, he nods, but that suffocating claustrophobia is settling in now. Now that he has to actually _face_ his own emasculation like this. Can’t turn away, can’t flip over and pretend he’s someone else, and it’s getting a little hard to breathe with his brother’s considerable weight pinning him down. Sam’s gone from his head this time, no familiar, well-loved voice to fondly chastise him for overreacting—and he’s certainly not gonna ask the real one to do it instead.

Dean was wrong. He can’t do this for Sam. This is _worse_. This is so much worse because Sam can _see_ him. He slams his eyes shut, scraping for just a sliver of peace, and it’s too close to that night before Detroit. Not just close—it’s _exactly_ like that night, only Sam was silently crying then. And so was he. And he might fucking start doing just that in a minute and— _“Poor, helpless little Dean,” Alastair chuckles, cooing at him like he’s an infant in that thick, nasal lisp of his. Fucking Brando wannabe. “I do have to warn you that crocodile tears will get you nowhere. I know what you really want.” He playfully trails the blunt end of his straight razor through the tears that have managed to escape from Dean’s eyes, probably leaving streaks behind in the blood coating his cheeks. Smooth, bare skin beneath. Stubble shaved off clean as a woman before Alastair had started working on his face. He’d used the same razor. “Does it hurt?” he asks genuinely—or as genuine as a monster like him can get anyway. Dean can’t answer him. He doesn’t have a tongue anymore. Alastair twists the blade until it’s angled down, sharp point aimed straight at the soft gelatin of his left eye. “How about when I do this?”_

Sam thrusts up into him, bolt of lust rocketing up Dean’s abdomen and kicking him right back out of his head, but his brother’s movements feel more frantic than anything. Desperate, and not in the good way. _Worried_. Dean keeps his eyelids shut, but at least Alastair isn’t lurking behind them anymore. Just dizzy spots of light dancing in the black. Sam falters slightly in his thrusting, like maybe he realizes this little plan of his isn’t working much better than the first one. He slows his hips, moving barely enough to keep them both hard, and Dean’s just about to snap at him to get it over with already when Sam beats him to it.

“I watch you,” his brother blurts out, totally unexpected, and Dean’s eyes flutter open again at the surprise of it. Sam wets his lips and holds his gaze, his expression determined, yet curiously sincere. “When you’re working on the car,” he says quietly, almost _shy_ , “or lifting something heavy. When you’re in just a t-shirt— _fuck_.” He huffs out a self-deprecating breath, hint of an actual smile flirting at his lips. “Your sleeves go so tight around your arms my mouth goes dry.”

 _Shut up._ It’s on the tip of his tongue. Dean tries to push the words out of his throat, but he can’t. He needs to hear it. He doesn’t care how fucking pathetic it makes him. He needs to hear it.

“Jesus Christ, Dean,” Sam breathes out, quiver of lusty admiration in his voice. “Biceps as big as your fucking head.” Dean can’t help from immediately flexing his arms at the confession, as embarrassing as the response is with his hands still behind his head like some beefcake poster boy. An automatic, reflexive reaction to the words. Sam pretends it’s just a twitch, same as he does—thank god. “You used to carry me,” he says, connecting the thought, “when I was younger. Thirteen or so. I was too old for it, but I’d pretend to be asleep in the backseat when we pulled up to some nowhere motel in backwoods wherever just so you’d have to.” Sam huffs out a real laugh this time, picks up his speed again, and Dean lets out a real hitched gasp of his own to match it. All his insecurities, his chest-tight fears crumbling away under the flood of his brother’s words. “I’d pretend to already be asleep,” Sam admits, “because I knew you’d pick me up against your chest to carry me inside. And, Dean, when you hold me,” he whispers hesitantly, making himself vulnerable too, “I feel safe.”

“ _Sammy_ ,” he whispers back. Or tries to anyway. His lips shape the name, but his tongue gets stuck somewhere in the middle. It feels like his throat is made of sandpaper. It feels like he’s been shouting for hours, and his voice comes out this tiny, wrecked thing in the stale air. Dean’s not sure if he’s still supposed to be keeping his arms up, but he doesn’t care. Not anymore. He brings them down to wrap around his brother, _holding_ him just like he’d said, and his dick throbs against Sam’s abs at the ensuing shudder.

“And your neck?” His brother lets out a strangled sound, bolstered by Dean’s reaction. “I wanna fucking _live_ here, man. You have no idea. Just the smell, the taste of you. The way you feel.” He’s thrusting harder now, closer to his typical pace, and Dean has to bite back a breathy whine before it escapes through his teeth. “Man, I can close my eyes and press in right here, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Can barely sleep any other way. Just like when we were kids. Toss and turn all night unless I’m right here.” Sam leaves a teasing nip to the junction right where it curves into his shoulder. Soothes it with the wet flat of his tongue. “You have no idea how often I wake up with stubble-burn on my forehead, man,” he chuckles softly, “and I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

 _‘Man’_. He’s saying it too much. It’s about as subtle as a flying brick. Dean doesn’t want him to stop. He grips tighter around Sam’s wide shoulders and tries not to sound too needy as his brother starts nailing his prostate on every other thrust. Bolts of arousal lancing up his core and shooting down his legs to his toes until everything’s TV-static prickly with the sensation. It’s a flip of their usual roles. Sam’s not generally the talker during sex, _he_ is. But Dean wouldn’t stop him now if he could.

Sam growls against his skin, scrape of his teeth sending another ripple of arousal right through him. “And that’s not even mentioning your cock— _God_ , Dean. So goddamn huge.” Dean almost lets out a laugh of his own at that. The quasi-pornographic dialogue is a little unexpected coming from his brother. Sure, Dean’s big enough, but it ain’t like he’s _Ron Jeremy_ big—and Sam doesn’t usually go in for the cliché stuff. “My favorite thing about you,” he says, trailing the admission along the angle of his jaw. It’s not. Dean knows it’s not because Sam is a fucking sap and his favorite part of Dean is probably his eyes or his smile or something else insufferably cheesy. But it’s understandable, given everything, that he’d go to this next. Predictable, even. “So thick and hot and _hard_ ,” he moans. “And when you’re inside me—fucking me—it makes me wanna stay like that. Forever. Because _nothing_ compares, Dean. I never want you to stop. It makes me feel so good. _You_ make me feel so good.”

Dean swallows hard around the tightness in his throat. He can feel something shatter into little shards of glass inside his chest—the relentless pressure too much to take without breaking under the weight of all this—and he finally lets all the rest of the bullshit go. Goddamn nightmares that don’t have any hold on him anymore. Because why the fuck is he torturing himself when they _both_ want this so bad? When they both want it the other way so bad too. Hot and hungry and endlessly desperate for any and every way they can get each other.

Sam starts fucking him hard, ruthless,  _brutal_ , once he realizes he’s been given the permission. Maybe just from the barest relaxation of Dean’s body around him. They’ve never needed words to understand each other anyway. “And your hands,” he groans, long and drawn-out, picking up right where he left off. “And your mouth. And your _voice_. And everything, Dean. Just fucking _everything_.”

Sam gets his hands twisted up tight into the comforter for leverage, right up near Dean’s shoulders, hitches his legs over the bend of his elbows. “It’s good,” his brother pants, pounding into him so fiercely Dean can barely breathe, but in the best fucking way this time. “It’s good, Dean. You’re so good.”

Dean slides his own hands down to skim over Sam’s narrow little waist, hot drag of sweaty skin under his palms, reaches back to grip at his ass and just hangs on for the ride. His brother thrusts into him hard, nearly punches the goddamn breath out of his lungs, and then leans forward to press a trail of chaste little closed-mouth kisses up the column of his neck and behind his ear. And Jesus Christ, it’s so…it’s so _Sam_. Sam, who faces down demons with a savagery that unsettles even Dean sometimes, then nearly trips over himself in simpering compassion every time he spots some mangy little stray animal. The gigantic, nerdy doofus Dean’s known all his life. The cretin who orders his steaks rare and his burgers medium-well—he’s wrong on both counts, by the way, but that’s not the issue at hand here. Sam, who ties him all up in the worst kind of knots, and then gently, carefully undoes them all again until Dean’s a better man than he was before.

“C’mon, Dean,” Sam gasps out into the shell of his ear, hips rocking them both up the bed. Slamming the headboard into the wall until little chunks of beige plaster start to fall away and reveal the powdery white beneath. Good. The room needed some color. “C’mon, you can just let go,” Sam whispers. Ardent and devoted. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

Dean reaches up to catch his brother’s face in his hands, drags him down to his own mouth and slips inside that gorgeous wet heat until Sam bucks in helpless arousal and lets out a long, broken moan at the practiced slide of his tongue. Dean pulls back with a soft smile. Drops one more peck to his brother’s bee-stung lips. “You first,” he says fondly, and it isn’t a request.

Sam just nods, grinning from ear-to-ear after a kiss like that. He _snaps_ his hips forward, grinds his forehead against the jut of Dean’s collarbone, and then drills into him until he finally comes with a high, breathy sound. Like he was just waiting for the permission. Fingers clenching and unclenching around Dean’s thighs until he can practically feel the ink-bruises that’ll soon pepper his skin. The deep wash of satisfaction he’ll get every time he catches a glimpse of them. Proof of his brother’s claim.

He tangles one hand up in Sam’s sweat-dampened hair, digs the other right between his shoulder blades as he shivers through the aftermath. His release warm and wet across Dean’s torso. Dean expects him to need a minute or so after coming that hard, third time in three days, but he jumps right back into action. Grabbing for Dean’s straining cock with the single-minded focus of an acolyte before an altar. That devout, fanatical way Sam gets sometimes. Strips him rough and merciless until Dean lets out a broken sound of his own, breath ripped right from his lungs, fingers clawing into Sam’s back, as his orgasm rockets through him. Head to gut to balls, shooting off over his brother’s knuckles and coating his own flagging dick and Sam keeps jacking him until he’s overspent and wrung-out, and Dean doesn’t even push him away until the pain tips _just_ over the edge of too much.

Sam does pull out of him right away though, both of them hissing at the lazy drag of skin-on-oversensitive-skin, and Dean doesn’t know if what he feels at the gesture is relief or regret. Sam wipes his own hand off on the covers, a cursory rub-down before leaving him to it. Trying to avoid the sarcastic rebuke Dean usually throws at him for wanting to cuddle. The way he’d done yesterday. The way he always does…but Dean _can’t_ let him go this time. He doesn’t know why. Can’t pin down the source of the feeling, but something deep within him _knows_ that he needs Sam to stay right where he is.

Dean stretches up to capture his brother’s lips again—before he can slip away to the other bed—and Sam just falls into it with a grateful sigh, like he’s more excited about the simple make-out sesh than the pair of bone-melting orgasmshe’d just given the both of them. Sam nibbles at the swollen give of his lower lip, lets out one last tiny little moan into Dean’s mouth, and then pulls back just far enough to end the kiss. Barely an inch separating them. Not far enough to let Dean’s eyes uncross. Not far enough to slip his big hands away from either side of his jaw. Not far enough that Dean can’t catch him if he makes to slink away.

But he stays. Worn-out and contented. He lets his muscles go lax and just waits patiently for Dean to make the next move for the both of them.

So Dean does, pulling back from his brother just enough that he can flip over onto his front, giving a necessary rest to the parts he knows from experience are gonna be doubly sore in the morning. Sam flops down next to him, mirroring his position. He rests his chin on his crossed arms for a moment, then tilts his head to toss Dean a tentatively pleased smile. The look of calm acceptance he gets in return must be everything he’s been waiting for because his expression quickly tips toward smug and Dean’s only able to get out one grudging, “ _Okay_ , don’t let it go to your goddamn head,” before his giant, sweaty little brother is suddenly burrowing under Dean’s bicep, the momentum forcing him onto his side as Sam presses up flush against his entire front and wraps a long leg over his hip. Dean groans at the weight of it, his calf pressing heavy right where a monster cock had just spent twenty minutes splitting him apart, but Sam ignores him completely. Face shoved into the curve of his neck, just like he’d talked about earlier. It sends something fluttering in Dean’s chest. Paper moth wings. Sam’s skin is overheated, too-warm in the aftermath of any physical activity, but Dean couldn’t ever push him away.

He’s tired—he’s _exhausted_ —and he can’t pretend right now. This little game that they have. The two-dimensional roles they adhere to out of expectation and teasing and mainly just because they do. Because they always have. They play off of each other—straight man to the other’s comedian in their own private two-man show. Laurel and Hardy. Abbott and Costello. ‘Say goodnight, Gracie.’ _‘Goodnight Gracie_. _’_ Dean has to set up the pitch so that Sam can deliver the punch line. Or vice-versa. He has to pretend to shove his brother away so that Sam can cling tighter. Give them— _him_ —the excuse. But he can’t. Not right now.

Dean strokes a gentle hand over the back of his brother’s sex-mussed hair. Keeps repeating the motion until Sam melts against him even further. Hunches down like he always does in order to tuck himself into Dean’s shoulder. Lets out a little sigh like he’s relieved he hasn’t broken this. Them. Their…whatever-it-is.

Sam doesn’t say anything else, thank god. Apparently content enough to just snuggle without breaking into that ‘let’s talk about all of our bullshit feelings’ claptrap he seems to love so much. Dean knows that his brother is holding back even from just asking if he’s okay, and he’s glad for it. ‘Cause, honestly, he doesn’t even know yet. Has no clue what to say about it without setting off another one of Sam’s sweet but amateur-clumsy attempts to fix everything. But… _this_ , whatever it is, it’s better. And that’s enough for now.

Sam presses another chaste kiss to the bend of his neck and Dean lets a full-body shiver roll through him, always so responsive to his brother’s merest touch. And it’s the same the other way around too. Dean savors the blissful noise Sam makes when he reaches down to lightly trace over the veins of his forearms in return.

He’s gonna shove his brother off of him for real in a bit. There’s only so much of the disgusting feeling of lube—and spunk—in his ass he can take. And Sam will make a big show of not wanting to get up, probably even more of an emotional nuisance than usual due to thinking Dean _needs_ this or something. He’ll keep him all wrapped up like some clammy, overwarm octopus for way too long until Sam eventually starts to itch, and then he’ll grudgingly mope over to the sink to clean up. Finally let Dean free enough to shower. He’ll snag the clean bed though, while Dean’s occupied. The little bitch.

 _‘Little bitch’, huh?_ —a needling, simpering voice that sounds too much like Alastair taunts.  _Then what, pray tell, does that make you?_

Dean lets out an ironic chuckle at the thought. Free enough for the first time in god-knows-how-long to actually laugh about it. Sam makes a sleepy sound of vague curiosity at the joke, but Dean ignores it. It’s not important anyway.

John Wayne liked bubble baths. _And_ his first name was Marion. Hell, Hugh-fucking-Jackman used to prance around singing show tunes before he started slicing up mutants for a living. So what if Dean’s biggest weakness is a desire to make his brother happy?

 _Weakness?—_ that same hateful voice asks again.  _What even **are** you other than weakness?_

He’s…he’s the man who makes Sam happy. And Alastair’s dead. Snuffed out like so much smoke by the lethal precision of his little brother’s will. Unable to ever hurt anyone again. Unable to ever make anyone hurt anyone ever again.

 _He’s the man who makes Sam Winchester happy_ —Dean reiterates in his own mental voice this time, burying his face in his brother’s hair to pull in a lungful of fresh sweat and day-old shampoo. Smiling where nobody can see it.

He’s pretty sure he can live with that.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Doors' "Back Door Man".


End file.
